


The Golden Dream

by kinpika



Series: A Perfect World [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Action/Adventure, Broken Families, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Fear of falling in love, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, More tags to follow, Politics, Rating May Change, Relationship Problems, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nohr bends, but never breaks. </p><p>Marx wishes nothing more than to restore Nohr to a glory that does not need conquest. For this, he will need to take the offered hand, and cast aside his pride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fools rush in

“Your majesty, if you will…”

Despite his grievances about the title, Marx let himself be ushered forward, ducking under the flap of material. A warm glow from the candles littering the table in the middle of the tent did little to take the chill off his skin, but he hovered close regardless. Outside, if Marx strained his ears, he might be able to hear the murmurs of conversation.

Only if he strained his ears, as the rains refused to stop.

It was why he was out in what was once the farmlands of Nohr. At least, that’s what the history books had told him. Not that Marx had ever remembered something resembling farmland in Nohr as there was in Hoshido, but stretches of flat land before the camp, now soggy with several inches of water sitting above surface, was apparently what was left. One of Marx’s first efforts had been to try to see if they could grow plants once more, after receiving goodwill from Hoshido in the form of seeds. 

Hissing through his teeth at the loud crack of thunder, Marx knew it was a fool’s errand. “What is the current situation?” A general sentence he had been repeating every few hours. The situation had not changed in weeks, but reciting that line meant he didn’t have to think about anything else.

“As expected, it’s… grim.” 

Marx looked down at the map spread across the table, fingers brushing little flags of areas they had branched out to, trying to provide support. As they had expected, if they had not been run out with fire and pitchforks, they had been robbed blind. Leon had said something along the lines of no one trusting anyone who waved a royal flag, and in hindsight, Marx should have brought him along. No doubt his constant quick rapport would have provided much humour in the grey.

“Explain.” If he wiggled his toes in his boots, all he could feel was the soggy excuse for socks, and maybe a few millimetres of water. It was one of the few times he was thankful that Camilla had stuffed an extra pair in his pack before he had left. He would need to thank her properly, the next time he was near the capital. 

It was the look on the advisors face that had him grimace. Marx had not meant to sound so clipped, but he was getting exhausted. Sinking into his bones was just water, and it was weighing him down. Water had never been a friend to Marx, and he may have been only able to count on one hand the instances where he had nearly died, but it was enough.

“Apologies, I—” With a deep breath, Marx leaned over the table further, attention drawn to a cluster of flags near the west. “Please, tell me what is happening.”

Choosing wisely to ignore the looks shared between a general and the soldier at his left. This is when he wished he had brought the likes of Felicia along. Even Charlotte might’ve provided a little more in the way of explaining without dancing around the issue. It was times like these when he missed the accompaniment of Lazwald and Pieri. 

“Whilst the nearby town has _accepted_ our presence,” a pause, a flick of eyes to judge Marx’s reaction, no doubt, “many have returned underground. An entrance along the mountain ridge was found earlier this morning.”

Finally, they had made progress. Marx was not familiar with traversing underground, as when he was younger, Garon had firmly stood against it. As such, many maps of the land were missing entry points, and where there was once a town now stood broken buildings. Each red flag along the map of Nohr was a town that was empty, and it was starting to become a colour Marx didn’t want to see.

“However… the scouts we had sent were attacked on sight. One casualty, and we lost several mounts in the process.” 

From the gathering of little horse statues at the very edge of the map, three were removed. Considering their condition after two months away from the capital, they were at breaking point. Only the other day, two wyverns had succumbed to their wounds, and as they had been traversing through the forest, rain had drenched the land enough to suck a wagon down. From where they were, it was close to a two week ride back to Vindam.

“I see.” There was little he could say, and pushing himself up, Marx did not raise his eyes. If Leon were here, would he consider a retreat to spare the men anymore suffering? Camilla would have drawn back, save herself and a small retinue, in all likelihood. And Elise? Would Elise wish to keep going, to save any future Nohrians?

Massaging the bridge of his nose, Marx finally tore his gaze up. Considering what his siblings may or may not achieve was something he had told himself to stop thinking about. They were not comparable, and whilst he wished for their counsel and support, it was just him, and _his_ army. 

The moment he returned to the capital, Marx was to be coronated, as if to cement it further.

“If I may, your majesty… we should pull back. A slow march back to the capital will keep the bandits off our heels, and we can tend to the wounded properly.”

“Is there a horsemaster in the area?”

“Yes, I believe so—wait, _what_?”

With a grimace, Marx drew a finger around their current location. “We need horses to pull the carts. Is there someone here who could provide us with them?”

“I-I, well, as I said, I _believe_ so, but, your majesty, we can’t afford to go out at this hour and—”

“Give me the directions.”

All at once, there were objections. Frown deepening into a scowl, as he was bombarded with potential dangers and the weather and every other situation, it did little to deter Marx. After all, he was the most fit of all soldiers to travel at that time. At the insistence of the general, his accompanying advisor and several other soldiers he had never met before, he had been pushed to the back. No more.

“As your _king_ , I demand it.” 

Marx knew that he had not rightfully received the throne just yet. If he passed, he had made every effort to pass the crown on to Leon, if anything at Camilla’s insistence at staying out of court proceedings. Keeping his younger brother securely in the capital had been a feat alone. 

“Y-yes… your majesty.”

Scribbled instructions, and a badly drawn map followed by a detail of marked trees. Marx does not wait to dismiss them, striding out of the tent and into the cool night. Childish. Deep down, he could hear something in him call his actions childish. But with a motion to Benoit and Harold, who had lingered outside for far too long, the rest of him sang. Finally, he could move on.

“Lord Marx, if I may…?”

Holding out the map, Marx just barely manages to tamper down the smile. “We are going to find horses.”

There is scurrying in the makeshift stable, and he’s pulling his saddle free from the stand. A boy, who had appeared at some point during their march and proved to be quite an asset, according to the old man caring for what horses that remained, was a step ahead, carefully tightening the padding from where he had brushed. Marx does not pause long enough, but the boy is all quick hands and quick feet, managing to catch the saddle in a way that it lands almost perfectly, and tightens it as Harold speaks up once more.

“My Lord, please.” Harold is at his own mount, a hand pressed against the horse’s neck as Benoit finishes adjusting the padding on his own. “I do not object to your will, of course, but we require some information.”

Hooking his foot into one stirrup, Marx pushes himself up and over in one smooth movement, settles, before he turns. “A horsemaster lives not too far from camp, and I wish to procure some of his horses for our return to Vindam.”

“Our return…?” It’s Benoit who finally looks over. After the war, he had disappeared, as had most troops with the intention of seeing loved ones. Benoit had been one of the last ones to return, and it was Charlotte who had insisted he join Marx for a time. Where he had been, no one knew, and he remained as quiet on the matter as he had before the war.

With a sigh, Marx pointed west. “There is an entrance to the underground cities, but they are heavily guarded. We are in no position to try to enter, and the rain is not going to pass anytime soon. We should return to the capital to let them know.”

Harold is heaving himself up, when he pauses. “You did not wish to let your advisor nor general know this?”

Marx waits for Benoit to sit before he shakes his head. “I do not trust that man. Had it been my choice, I would have insisted on Leon being here. Or Elise, to learn more.” Despite saying nothing, Harold’s expression turns sour at the mention of bringing Elise. Elfie had too expressed discomfort at Elise being brought to such a place so early after the war. But that was an argument for another time. 

Thanking the boy, Marx gave the map one more look, before directing his horse out of the stable. “Come. The longer we talk, the more time we waste.”

There was no argument, save for the shout of soldiers as Marx raced past. Extra padding under his armour for warmth was appreciated, as it was as if the moment they left the camp, a cold, dark feeling seeped into each little crack and split. In front of him, his breath was visible, and it was not the first time he wished for his bed, his pillow, simpler times.

With a sharp turn, through scrub, over puddles that would prove troublesome for carts, and weaving between dead trees, Marx wonders if he had taken this for granted. Part of him had said to send someone else, to bargain in his place while he had stayed safe and behind. Shaking his head, Marx leaned on. It was not the time to think about his own safety. When they had returned, he had sworn to stop the bloodshed, and he had failed. 

It was his responsibility now. Marx knew that, deep in his core, that if he were to truly take the throne, every action was his own, the arm of the law and each Nohrian were also his. Seeing what had happened to his father, falling to his own fears, letting it get the better of him, only strengthened his resolve.

The rain covered the whistle until it was at his ear. If it had not been for the branch in front he had to duck under, Marx would have died. 

“Keep moving!” They were outnumbered, likely, and even if they were not, it was getting hard to see. Should they repeat this again, one more time, Marx would bring a lamp with him, to light the way. Thunder fills his ears, although it was hard to discern the horses from the sky, as they are riding through the thicket now, uphill as there are more arrows catching on branches.

Harold is shouting something, likely to do with standing and fighting. They could not afford to. If they were to slow the horses now, they would be sitting targets, and as an arrow skims his cheek as he takes a sharp left, Marx knew it was a likely outcome. He could hear Camilla teasing about not taking a wyvern into battle at that moment.

“A little more…!”

There’s a catch in his arm that he ignores. Ignores, ignores, ignores, as they finally break free of the trees and its the flat sodden land he’s so used to. At the top of a slight hill sits light, muted, but it’s there, just up a gravel path. Looking over his shoulder, Marx grunts at the arrow, Harold sliding off his horse, and Benoit dragging up the rear.

There was a range of scratches along the flank, Harold’s hand hovering as he tries to decide which is the worst. “Lord Marx… your arm…” Benoit finally speaks up, and as Marx remembered it was there, pain rose. Shaking off Benoit, Marx simply grabbed the end of the arrow, and snapped it off. 

“Leave it for now. We are nearly there.”

They walk the rest of the way on foot. Uphill, sweat beading along his forehead despite the rain. Despite the rain being cold, Marx felt hot all over, sticky and running far too warm under his armament. He snorts at the irony that only perhaps an hour prior, maybe more, he had been thinking he was too cold. As they reach the top, Marx tilts his head back. Had it only been a few hours since they had left camp? Time had seemed to fly by as they raced through the last of it. Maybe he should have let Benoit pull the arrow out and dress the wound. 

But Marx would worry about that later, looping the reins over a post and striding forward, careful not to move his arm anymore than necessary. He hoped luck was on his side, and it would not be a grievous wound. A simple arrow being enough to take him down was like something he had read about as a child; far too embarrassing to even consider now.

Marx is not three steps to the door when there was muted shouting on the other side. A man and woman, maybe more than just the two, and as he raises his hand to knock, the door flies open. Before him stands a family, that much Marx can tell. There, a young boy behind his father’s legs, peeking out, and a woman at the base of the stairs. 

Towering over them, Marx does not miss the brief look of fear, settling into sheer determination. It was not the first time they had been dismissed as bandits. Marx resisted the urge to scratch the hair growing at his chin.

“Wha’d’ya want?”

With a pause, at the address or the way the man kept shooing the boy away, Marx bows. As he rises, the man’s expression had not changed in the slightest, not that Marx was expecting otherwise. Being given the same absolute silence was slightly better than being attacked on sight, however. Marx could take that change always. 

And he began, a line he had embedded into his entire body with the sheer amount of times he had had to repeat it the last few months. “I am Prince Marx of Nohr,” he says, voice booming over the rain. “I have a request of you.”

“Save the pleasantries, _boy_. We know who y’are. Been on our lands for three days now.”

Behind him, Harold was the one who started at the remark, voice rising about addressing Marx properly. Marx held up an arm, stopping him. “You know of us?” Unable to hold back, he was genuinely curious at being known first. Most of those they had encountered had laughed in his face at calling himself the ‘Prince of Nohr’. 

“Aye. ‘round these parts, missing a prince’s army is hard work.” 

At that, Marx smiled. Lips cracked and worn, with being bitten far too many times, and one scar that still pulled, but the corners of his mouth lifted. It was odd, like his whole face lifted, and for one moment, Marx felt like the situation was not wholly awful. Except for the finger prodding where the tip of the arrow sat, and the fussing as he was dragged into the house.

“All princes are damn fools,” he was told, as Marx is forced into a seat by the fire. 

The man has nimble fingers, lifting and pulling at straps, until his pauldrons fell away, breastplate following. Out the corner of his eye, Marx watches his wife throw towel upon towel over Harold and Benoit. A bark of orders, and the youngest runs upstairs. “Damn boys, would sleep through the end of the world.” Marx catches the muttering, but a sentence never forms, as the rerebrace is unclipped, and a low hiss is all he lets out.

“You have done this before,” Marx just manages, letting his gauntlet and vambrace be pulled off, clenching his fist at the pain.

Clicking his tongue, the man barks something over his shoulder. “Squire once, boy. Did my time, met my Sera before my formal training.”

Harold is hovering, hands not quite sure where to rest. He’s saying something, about wanting to return to camp, Marx going with them, but his words begin to run into each other. Now that his wound was in the open air, Marx was able to see just how deeply the arrowhead sat. Of course, it had managed to find a slight gap in his armour. Of course, of course.

“Lord Marx, we must return, there are healers—”

“You leave now, I can cut off his arm to save the trouble.” There’s a snort, as in the small room comes another two lanky bodies, the smallest son hiding behind them. “Go get their horses out into shelter.”

“I will join you,” Benoit finally says, standing from where he had seated himself by the door. “One of the horses is injured.” 

No one responds, save for a small nod of Marx’s head. If he opened his mouth to dismiss Benoit, he was sure he would shout, as there was a towel pressed against the wound now.

“Did you break the shaft?”

“Yes.” Just barely, he manages to form the word. If he had to give the man credit, it was the gentleness, the way he wiggled what remained of the shaft attached to the arrowhead, before motioning to his wife. 

A cool towel was draped over his forehead, a sigh of “this will hurt,” before a count to three. Pain does not cover how he tightens as the arrowhead is pulled free. Marx had underestimated the extent his people would go to, just to drive the army from their lands. Through half lidded eyes, Marx watches as the arrowhead is turned over in the light, breathing heavily as he spies how the tip had something attached.

“Boy, you have some rotten luck.” Dropping the arrowhead into a bucket of water the youngest child brought over, the man turned back.

Marx feels no need to respond, as his arm twitches involuntarily. Blood oozes out of the wound, slow and thick, not at all natural. Numbness fills him, and he takes the offered water without hesitation. A little arrow to the arm and he was beside himself. Closing his eyes, Marx considered never returning to the capital at all, to just send word he had opted to stay behind. Abdicating the throne in favour of the younger sibling had happened before, a long time ago.

He does not remember falling asleep. Yet, Marx wakes, instinctively going to move his right arm, only to jump from the pain. Heaving deeply, he tried to move again, noting the skin felt too tight, and laying a hand over the bandages, Marx felt just how hot he was burning. This was something he was familiar with: infection. Not insistent enough that he had to be overly worried, but it was there, under the skin.

“Lord Marx, thank the gods.”

“Harold,” he greets, voice thick, as Harold comes plain into view. It was oddly comforting, seeing his sister’s retainer, armour put aside and in dry clothes. Marx wanted to ask where Benoit was, but he was handed food without pause.

“My lord, they saved your life. Philip, the horsemaster, stitched your wound while you were asleep.”

“How long has it been?” 

“Only a few hours. It should be dawn soon.”

Taking the offered bread, Marx tore into it without thinking, not caring for the look of surprise on Harold’s face. Flexing his fingers, Marx noted his little finger was not quite able to stretch the entire way, and he feared that. “Do you believe he will give us the horses?”

Harold did not respond straight away, his silence an answer. “I see,” Marx sighs, bread falling from his hand back onto the plate. That he had expected the moment he had been dragged into the house.

“Fear not, lord Marx, I am sure there is a way.”

Shifting, to lean against the wall, Marx could only offer a small smile. “For our sake, Harold, I hope you are right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off Japanese version canon (with like a few English version things depending on what they are).  
> Supports that I personally like will be mentioned as I go along in varying ways. I've read and compared like nearly every support there is save for a few.  
> Using Japanese version names except for obviously Nohr and Hoshido.
> 
> Notes for this chapter located: [here](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/144900858365/)  
> If I can think of anything else I'll add to it but I'm planning on doing this every chapter


	2. Shepherding wolves

As he walks down the stairs, following Harold, Marx hears the whispering. Just barely peeking over the railing, he catches tufts of hair he recognises as Sera’s, the lady of the house, and one of her sons. Low arguments, at least on the woman’s behalf. Her son’s voice was rising with every hand thrown their way, and Marx was not oblivious enough to know what the argument was likely about. Like with many other villages, if it had not been questioning his royal status, it was how to extort as much out of him as possible.

Marx was dearly hoping it was the former. Although, it would lead to him utterly discouraging the belief that the royal family had birthmarks in odd places — naturally, he had never heard of such a thing, except in books he had read as a child. Most village children had grown up on that belief too, and taken it into adulthood, apparently.

For a moment, Marx wondered if it was too late to have Harold scrawl something onto his shoulder reminiscent of a mark. If it had not been for the blind fear that Harold would tell Elise, who would then caw such an action to the rest of their family, he might have followed through.

It is the next step down which alerts them to Marx and Harold’s presence. A squeaky step, enough to earn one vicious look and a round of ‘good morning, my Lord’, followed with apologies and ushering. There is a hand that floats around his arm, and Marx gives no indication that he will argue as he is slipped into a sling. It is the crushing feeling in his chest, as he is lead towards a kitchen table, that just enforces how useless he truly is.

Upon the table is his circlet, still slightly filthy from the muck kicked up in the rain, glinting in the candlelight. Marx gives a humourless laugh, and reaches for it, left hand curling around it uncomfortably so.

Would Garon be laughing now, at his pathetic excuse of a crown prince? Gods, he could not even go out just to find a horsemaster without going and getting himself injured. At least, Marx thought, he had not truly fallen from his horse this time. 

“Milord, I am so sorry for the state of things,” Sera is talking as she moves, quick hands and feet, smacking at children who reach for the oven a little too fast, complaining in between breaths about them being underfoot. “My husband will return soon. Some soldiers were here this morning, asking after you.”

Marx almost misses what she is saying, simply fascinated in watching the _mother_ , for lack of a better word. Deep in his soul, there is a vein of jealousy and want, old and grown over, that cracks ever so slightly. It had been years since his own mother had passed in her sleep, her sickness too much for her in the end. Ecatarina’s passing had been a hard time, and Marx remembered the whispers about how the kingdom had taken a turn for the worse since she had left them.

Idly, Marx wondered if her belongings were still in the castle somewhere. 

“What did they ask of you?”

Sera brings a cloth over, bucket of water at her feet. “They accused us of holding you hostage, milord.”

As he sighs, one part pain as his wound is cleaned, the rest out of resignation, Marx shakes his head. “I am deeply sorry for any trouble they had caused.” Apology ending on a low hiss, as she wipes around the base of the stitches, Marx tries not to think. Not to think about the army, the state of his arm, the horses, the intended isolation so as to not take the throne. Marx buries himself deeply, focusing on a spot above the window on the opposite wall, and tells himself to calm.

“Thank you, truly, for your hospitality,” Marx finally starts, when the cloth finally drops into the bucket once and for all. “If there is anything you so wish, please, do tell.” The words are foreign in his mouth, offering a boon of sorts for stitching him back together, but something tells him it is the right thing to do. A manic part of him almost rears its head, and Marx smothers it with a smile.

“There is something. Granted, and with all due respect milord, in your current state I would rather it go ignored.” Sera wrings her hands, and Marx does not miss the absence of meekness now. Her tone is firmer, solid. Whilst she may refuse to meet his eye, it is the way she holds her shoulders back that makes her seem to never waver. It was oddly familiar, nostalgic almost, as if he had seen this all before.

“Please, tell me.”

A single pause, that has Marx think that maybe he had crossed some line. Was this being too personable for a king? Offering too many favours, whilst injured and quite literally in the clutches of another? There had never been a lesson for a situation like this, when he was young and with his other siblings. _They_ had never prepared him for this. 

“In the woods… wolves have moved in. We have been lucky, with saving the horses. They have only been attacking the odd goat on the mountainside, or a wandering stranger,” a pointed look, that Marx chooses to wisely ignore. “My husband believes the weather has forced them in.”

“And you think otherwise?”

Sera does not meet his eye as she picks up bandages, and begins to wrap his wound. “There have been poachers in the mountains again, I heard. Wolves do not take too kindly to that.”

Marx was not slow enough to miss the connection, and simply nods. “I see… allow us to tend to your wolf problem, if you will. My army has need of your husband’s horses, and we will reward you for this, I swear it.”

Finally, she smiles — tired, as if she had heard the phrase time and time before, but there is still something in her eyes. “You are a good man, Lord Marx. My husband may think you to be the fool, but you have kind eyes. That says a lot more about a man than their words.”

Caught off guard, Marx does not form the words he should. Thanks is the first thing he should offer, humility next. But it is the sincerity in her voice, and the gentle lay of hand against arm that shocks him out of an answer, gaping as if he had suddenly lost the ability to speak. “T-thank you, my lady. You are too kind,” tongue heavy in his mouth, Marx finally manages to talk, unable to look her in the eye. “Far too kind.”

A smile plays around the corners of her mouth, and she moves on, asking if they wish for some tea. Harold seems to finally find himself able to sit, assisting in coaxing Marx’s arm into a sling. It was troublesome work, Marx finding his elbow did not quite give the entire way. Telling himself that when they returned to camp, he could find a healer, he simply accepted the pain, before leaning back in the chair.

“Where is Benoit?” Marx finally asks, noticing the gaping absence of the friendly giant.

Harold makes a face that Marx cannot quite place an emotion to, but he motions outside. “Benoit left with Philip to track the animals. They left only minutes before you woke, Lord Marx.”

“I see.”

Marx had no qualm with fighting injured, despite knowing full well it would be adamantly argued against. Dealing with wolves was another matter. If it were a simple animal pack, creeping far too close for comfort, it would be simple enough to drive them off. Had it been something else, such as the Garou, Marx was not quite sure how to act. He had never personally dealt with the only Garou in the war, only watching from afar as he had interacted with those in the camp.

Camilla had told him they were quite an amusing group, but Camilla thought many people were hilarious.

“When Benoit returns, we will go out.” Harold twitches, an objection that might have been caught in his throat, but he does not act on it. “The sooner we return to the camp, and the capital, the better.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Settling back, Marx accepted the tea and bread with many thanks. He was entirely aware of just how much this family was giving to him, in times like this. It reminded him of when Nohr first started going into decline, and just how much he avoided tending to his own wounds when soldiers were out defending their borders.

Some time close to an hour passes before there is shouts from outside. Marx is the first to move, left hand grasping Siegfried uncomfortably, but the cool metal in his hand in familiar. Harold is already outside, having insisted on guarding in case of _something_ , as he had persisted to spew until Marx had let him go. 

Benoit, the horsemaster and one of his sons come over the hill, a gallop as they race down to their lands. Shouting something that Marx cannot catch, he simply looks beyond him, at what was chasing them. 

Marx had only seen Garou once, but the form was unmistakeable. Stopping at the hill, howling at those who escaped, three Garou stood on their hind legs, one clawing at the air. 

“Benoit!” Harold is running out to meet the horses, Marx on his heels. Thankfully, no one was injured, but the way the horsemaster’s son seemed to fall off his horse said enough. “Monsters!” he shouts, when his mother throws her arms around him. “What _are_ those things?!”

“Garou,” Marx answers, as Benoit does not dismount. “Odd they would leave their home and travel all this way.”

“Flannel… is among them,” Benoit murmurs, when the family falls into disarray. “I only saw him for a moment… but he was there.

“Lord Marx, I can talk to him.”

Looking up at Benoit, Marx had never heard the man steel himself so much on a request, nor talk without pause. It was startling, and almost slightly unnerving. “I agree,” Marx says after finding his voice. “I would prefer to avoid to spill the blood of those who helped during the war.”

There is relief on Benoit’s face, as if he had expected Marx to suggest otherwise. Odd, Marx thinks, is this how I am perceived? Wishing to press the issue, to find out just what that face meant, it is the hand on his shoulder that makes him turn. Frowning, as the horsemaster stood with a manic expression, Marx knew what was coming next.

“I disagree,” he states, after the horsemaster’s arms finally settle by his side. “Garou do not attack unnecessarily.”

“They almost got m’boy! Taken my livestock these past weeks!”

“As I said, there must be a reason for them to have left Mount Garou. We will go converse with them—”

“Talk to monsters!” One of the sons crows, yet it goes largely ignored.

“And remove them from the lands by force if necessary. But only when I deem that the right thing to do.”

“Mad! Absolutely mad!” it is the final thing he gets, accompanied by the horsemaster storming off, ushering wife and children inside.

“No,” Marx says, despite knowing full well it would go unheard, “right.”

Heaving a sigh, Marx turns towards Benoit and Harold. “I will wear my leathers. I do not wish to make the Garou panic more than they have already.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

With a raised brow, Marx pauses in his stride towards one of the barns. “Whatever for, Benoit?”

A smile, that was surely a trick of the light, lifts up the side of Benoit’s mouth. “For being a good king.”

His frown returns, and Harold helps ease his right arm into the leather armour. “You are an odd man.” If they noticed the way his voice rose with pain at the end, it went unmentioned, Harold simply leaning down to affix the rest of the armour in place. 

Despite being unable to grasp with his right hand, Marx manages to sling himself over the back of his horse, sword bouncing against his hip. Left-handed swordsmanship was only something he had tried at the end of the war, at the insistence of Prince Ryouma. Whilst waiting for Harold to mount his horse, Marx leaned across with his left, practicing to draw. It would do, he mused, wondering if he should thank the Hoshidan prince for the lesson after all. 

The weight in his gut told him otherwise, and pushing the thought away, decided that was a conversation to practice on the walk home. It was not the right time to think about something like that.

“Lead the way.” 

With a nod, Benoit rides ahead, Harold pulling at the rear. A quick look over his shoulder has him see Sera looking out the window, before she disappears from view as they ride over the hill. Rain this way was lighter, almost unnoticeable, as it began. Holding out a hand as they slowed to a trot, Marx watched it slowly pool in his palm, warmer than the water around the camp and capital. “Odd,” he murmurs, shaking off the question when pressed. 

His mother had once spoken of warm rain, like having a nice, long bath. When Marx was seven, he had laughed and told her she was making up stories to convince him to go to bed. But now, he was not so sure she had been wrong.

“We are close,” Benoit’s voice barely carries, and Marx only nods. The Garou were further in than he had anticipated; something had to have been wrong to draw them all this way.

“Here!” Pulling to a halt, Benoit is swift as he dismounts. Directing his horse to stand beside Benoit’s, Marx is slower as he steps down. 

Benoit does not wait for them, crouching down a few feet away. “This way.” Marx had not known Benoit to be so good at tracking animals, and follows closely as he leads them through a thicket. A branch catches on his cheek, and he pays it no mind when thorns tug his sling this way and that. Pay no heed, he tells himself, as they drop to a crouch at the edge of a basin. Gingerly, he does touch his cheek, and feels the skin is wet.

Harold looks much the same, only giving a smile as he brushes his thumb above his eyebrow. Benoit moves a bush out the way, ever so slightly. Below, there are just over a dozen Garou milling about, some still in their beast forms. Yet even from high above, Marx could recognise the emotion on most of their faces: fear.

“Mostly women,” Harold murmurs. “Women and children. Gods, what happened to them?”

Marx goes to respond, and sees movement out the corner of his eye. With a yell, he does not get a chance to stand, the unmistakable feeling of claws at his throat. Head tipped back, Marx stares up, going crosseyed as he tries to focus on the gaping jaw, and the saliva threatening to drop on his face. “We wish to speak to Flannel,” he says firmly, Adam’s apple bobbing against the claws as he speaks. “We do not wish to harm you.”

“That was what the last humans said.” One of them speaks, and Marx manages to make out the words through the low growls. “They killed our men.”

Rolling his head just enough to see one of the Garou holding Benoit, assuming it was the one who spoke, Marx ignores the prickle along his throat. “I am sorry for your loss. I know that will not make up for the pain you have endured, but please, we must speak to Flannel. He fought beside us in the war.”

“‘War’…?” 

They pause, and the weight leaves his throat. Swallowing, Marx dare not move his eyes from where he held gaze with one of the Garou. Believe me, he thinks, please believe me. 

Pulled to his feet, Marx does not resist as he is pushed ahead of the small pack. Sliding down the hill, Marx manages to catch himself before he falls, eyes firmly on the ground as he walks a few steps. It is at the sudden round of howls that he looks up, eyes widening at the sight.

From between trees, yellow eyes follow, and those that were around the small camp seem to shrink back. Children, some no older than five, are ushered back, and even those who were injured lean forward, baring teeth. There may have been closer to thirty Garou, far off Marx’s first guess, but it was still far less than what had been on the mountain. 

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Marx keeps his gaze ahead, ignoring how the pack seemed to melt back into the trees, how bones crunched under his shoes. For a moment, Marx wondered if he was going to die, as he was lead towards a makeshift tent. Material was burnt and frayed in some parts, stitched together crudely as if to make up for the holes. Head pushed down, Marx was forced inside, squinting to see through the dark.

Harold and Benoit are pushed in beside him, not enough room for three grown men, and bowing slightly, Marx is not sure where to look. 

“Benoit? Is that you?”

It is not a trick of the light this time, when a grin spills across Benoit’s face. “Flannel.”

From the depths of the tent, Flannel emerges. Marx did not know enough about the man to be able to determine any differences from their time in the war till now, but there was a severity in his face. Lined and scarred, Marx noted how part of his ear was missing, and a particularly nasty scar ran from his ear to his neck, disappearing under his shirt. But any of that wariness faded as Benoit stumbled forward, replaced by a wag of the tail and a genuine smile. “Benoit! I never thought I would see you again!”

As they grasp hands, Marx saw several fingers ending at oddly made stumps, and does not comment. 

“Nor did I…” Benoit’s tone is tender, personal, as if being reunited with a long lost family member. Beside him, Harold shifts his weight to his other foot. The angle of the tent was beginning to wear on him too.

“Oh! Of course! Please, come in further, sit sit!”

Leading them back in, Marx is grateful for the opportunity to rest his back. It is then he notices how gingerly Flannel lowers himself, one hand holding the material slung shoulder to hip close. A slight sniff, followed by a yawn comes from the sling, and Marx watches as the material is pulled back just enough for a small ear to be visible.

“What brings you to us, Benoit?” Flannel noticed Marx staring, and his hold on the bundle tightens just a fraction more.

“Lord Marx is here.”

Startled at being addressed, Marx bows his head low. “You served my sibling’s army during the war.”

“Marx…? Oh! Camilla’s older brother! I remember you.”

That gives Marx pause. Being addressed as _Camilla_ ’s older sibling, and not Kamui’s, was almost unheard of. Flannel does not seem to notice his mistake, simply musing allowed about the war, and Camilla. “I have not been able to write back,” he goes on, as if thinking aloud. “Since the fire, we have been moving as fast as we can.”

“Fire?” Harold speaks up, and a look towards him tells Marx that Harold noticed the slight drop as well.

Flannel’s face grows dark. “We were smoked out of Mount Garou. Lost a quarter of our people there, and the rest on the way down here. The rain made it worse.”

“When did this happen?”

“Two weeks ago? Maybe more, maybe less. Keeping track is hard now, trying to get as far away as we can.”

Silence falls over them, sombre and heavy. Marx had no idea such a thing had occurred, too focused on approaching the rest of Nohr. Guilt pricked at him, and bowing his head, low enough to just barely touch the forest floor, he apologised. “Had we known — _no_ , we should have. Your losses outweigh our own far too much. I am so —”

“Stop.” Flannel holds up a hand, a smile that resembled more of a grimace than whatever emotion he was trying to convey. “There is nothing for it now. We will just keep moving until we find another nice mountain, I suppose. Nishiki might even let us live with him for a while,” a hollow laugh follows that, pain twisting Flannel’s face.

“I need to get my pack somewhere safe. That is my main worry now. Which makes me really think about why you are all here, actually.”

Finally, they reach the problem. Marx wonders if the horsemaster had written him off by now, an being called a ‘fool’ echoed in his mind. “I require some horses and the master of the area alleges your pack to have been terrorising his livestock.”

Something sparkles in Flannel’s eye. “Oh, does he now? Not entirely untrue. It is so hard to find sheep nowadays, after all.

“However, it is not us. Those who are stupid enough to get close enough are what we have been eating. Or we hunt in the surrounding area. Maybe it is a _wolf_ problem.”

“Perhaps some of your pack are hunting livestock without consent?” Marx suggests, noting the absolute avoidance of an answer. Instead of receiving outright admission, he received two halves that did not join together. Very annoyingly political of Flannel. As far as Marx was aware, he did not have it in him for that sort of thing.

Flannel shrugs, readjusting the sling as another little yawn emerges. “I have no control over what my people wish to do. I just give advice. There is more for me to worry about than whose sheep they are eating.”

“I need those horses—”

“And _we_ need a home—”

Marx knew of only one place in the entirety of Nohr where no one would bother them. If he had a moment longer, Marx would wonder if this was what Camilla or Leon or Elise would suggest. Instead, he speaks without thinking, tongue moving of its own accord. “Live on the castle grounds.”

“I— _what_?!”

All eyes are on him, and Marx raises his eyes so he was looking at the tuft of hair in the middle of Flannel’s head. “Live in the old hunting grounds of the castle. They are overgrown, and in dire need of a culling of the local pests. It will be safe, as no one dares go into there nowadays.”

Marx does not have enough quite enough time to decipher all the emotions of those around him, but receiving a grin that showed every tooth in his mouth, he does second guess himself.

“You _are_ an odd one, Marx. Camilla always said that about you. Alright, we will leave the poor sheep and follow you, as long as we have your word none of my people will get hurt.”

Gritting his teeth, Marx hoped he had made the right decision. “You have my word.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter notes are located: [here](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/144900911345/)


	3. Long way home

“What is your child’s name?”

A solitary pause coupled with a sidelong glance is Marx’s first response. Not that it was entirely unexpected, as they were nearly at the end of the march back to the capital, and Marx had not spoken much to Flannel. Whether it being Marx’s decision, or lack of opportunities, he could not say. Despite Flannel’s initial excitement at coming to Vindam with the promise of a home, it had begun to fade. Many of the Garou had begun to speak amongst themselves, whispers carrying about worries of this being a trap, after all.

“My apologies, if you do not wish to share—”

“Velour. Her name is Velour.”

“A beautiful name.” And Marx meant it deeply, hoping that Flannel knew that too.

Not clutching the sling as tight, Flannel loosens it enough to let Marx see the small pinched features of what he assumed was a baby Garou. But there was something in the shape of the eyes and the curve of the nose that did not seem right. “Her mother thought so too.”

As if realising she was being spoken about, tiny eyes slowly open, peering around. One hand gripping the front of Flannel’s shirt firmly, the other stretched, not quite full fingers, and yet not exactly a paw either. If Marx had to describe her, it was as if she was stuck in the middle of transforming, unable to decide where to go next. With a snort, that earned a laugh from Flannel, she begins to wriggle.

“Not yet,” Flannel murmurs, moving her to be supported by his other arm. “When it is safe, you can walk.”

Looking as the Garou walked at the end of the army, Marx turned to look back to where his generals were leading. The rift between his people and the Garou was obvious. Even before the march, when Marx had lead those that remained back to camp after settling the horses, there were whispers in the army. Soldiers talked about prices, loudly and without care, setting the Garou on edge. Marx was sure that there was a point where Flannel might have been overthrown, and only survived as he was certainly more scarred the next day.

“Can she ride?”

Again, Flannel stares him down. There was no sure way to make his intentions clear. Several of the soldiers who had embraced the Garou openly had given some of the smaller children rides at a time, and a wagon just ahead carried several mothers as well. 

“I—well.” Flannel clicks his tongue, and turns his gaze upwards. “I would not know.”

Backtracking, Marx’s grip on the reins tighten. It was beginning to wear on him, not knowing where to step, what to say. This Flannel he was talking to was nothing like the one Lazwald had regaled him about all those months ago. This Flannel was quieter, thinner, and above all else, concerned for the safety of a child. A dangerous man indeed. “I did not mean to press you—”

“Wait—sorry. I, just… Velour was born early. She is still developing her…” There is a wave of the hand, to signify the lower half of her body. “Garou have never really produced offspring with humans. I was told she would die early.”

Marx gives Flannel a long look, before his face eases into a smile. “She is a strong girl.”

Flannel laughs, more akin to a bark, that has a few soldiers turn. “That she is. Definitely inherited that from her mother.”

Ah yes, Marx muses, the mother. Whilst he had a fair idea of just who she might be, Flannel was tight-lipped on any names. Was it shameful? Marx had asked Harold this as they shared a glass of wine only three nights prior. Did she pass away? An early birth, as Flannel just revealed, meant certain death without help these days. Even the best healers were struggling, Marx had heard. But, several times back in the castle as a child, several of his father’s concubines had fallen in childbirth, sometimes taking their children with them.

Garon had been beside himself those days. Perhaps Flannel was the same. And yet, then again, Marx recognised those eyes, that particular shade of hair, the turn of that nose. There was no denying who it was. _Maybe Flannel is afraid, but of who?_

Marx’s mind provided a small _me, he is afraid of me_ , and he was not quick enough to crush the voice of a younger boy, swinging his sword in the gardens of the northern castle.

“You think too much.”

Blinking, Marx looked back down, a toothy grin sent his way. “Pardon?”

“I said, you think too much.”

“What do you mean by that?” An odd statement, one he had never had the pleasure of hearing before. 

A shrug, as Flannel tries to coax his wrestling daughter back into his arms. “Not that it is a bad thing, mind you. Many kings have fallen because they have not thought. But, Marx, you think a little _too_ much.”

Whether it is the familiarity in the tone, a lack of social graces that might even make them equal, or the stab at fallen kings, Marx is not sure where to start. New information was just thrown his way, coming from a Garou, of all people (Marx could hear the pain in Leon’s voice at the sheer thought). Yet, it was so deeply appreciated, he nearly stopped his horse in the middle of the march to press Flannel for more.

But a more petulant side of him reared its ugly head. “I believe I think the right amount,” he murmurs. Serious thoughts, concerning the army and his siblings, the future of Nohr. Marx limited himself on the distractions around him — except for one in particular stared back, small eyes and soft nose.

Another bark, and Flannel’s tail wags. Odd. “As do I, Marx. I am certain you are always doing the right amount of thinking. But think, perhaps, that the thought might not be as serious as you make it out to be.”

Confusion filled him, as Marx realised he was not sure what particular thought Flannel might have been referring to. Maybe this is a distraction, he considers, to pull me away from the mother. Flannel did not seem the type to deceive him so, and Marx buried that particularly loathsome thought away. Whilst he did not trust the man to go out of his way to save his life, thinking like that would make him similar to his father. Seeing shadows in places where there was no sun to begin with.

“You are making this argument go in circles.”

“Why I _never_.”

“If you wish to make a point, Flannel, I would suggest doing it far clearer than you are currently.”

Flannel seems to consider, bouncing his daughter absentmindedly. At last, he turned back, a gentler smile on his lips this time, but just as frightening as the show of teeth only a few weeks prior. “I am not afraid of you, Marx. Trust me, when I say this:

“I have faced far worse things than a man lost in his own head.”

Before Marx could press anymore information from Flannel, the man is called away, slowing down for someone to catch up. Turning on his horse, Marx watches Flannel melt into the army with a small wink sent his way. Teeth grinding, Marx sits back, running a hand over his face. What was there he did not understand? What was he missing with these people? There was some relief, at not being a cause for Flannel’s fear, but the man could have been lying, for all that Marx knew. Circles, that is what he was just running around in. Just when he thought that he had come to the end of the line, there was another question, another whisper, bringing him back to the beginning (or perhaps, the end).

But, Marx knew this was what Flannel had meant, and lowered his arm to rest on the reigns once more. So many questions cropped up in the back of his mind, as Flannel had provided no concern for standing. Flannel spoke as freely as he could, and that was something Marx would not forget. It had been too long since someone had come along, and spoken to him as a person, and not the crown prince, not the king. A deeply confused person, but a person nonetheless. If they spoke again, Marx would ask him to not talk in so many riddles. 

Giving his horse a slight dig of heels, Marx went ahead. Around him, the army bows and weaves, trudging through empty villages now, Vindam in sight, just over the hill. Getting through the forest was the hardest part, Marx knew, pulling carts and having to leave bodies behind due to weight. There was a time when he had half a mind to think someone would try to throw him from his horse, as the moment he returned, he was to be coronated. Marx had not fallen prior, despite the healers squabbling over his arm, and the mumbles of lasting damage. Fingers flex, as if just thinking about his arm made it react like it was another part, just borrowed, and not his own. An odd sensation, but one of the few he could feel there now.

As shouts begin, rolling through the army with growing fervour, relief fills him, and he presses the rest of the way to the front. Marx was not sure when he had ever felt comfort, seeing the high walls and dark gates, leading into Vindam. But at that moment, a warmth fills him, as he sees soldiers on the walls mill about, hands waving, gates opening. 

When the army had first marched home after the war, there had been no one to open the gates. They had stayed as firmly shut as they had been, when Garon had cast out his children for siding with the enemy. Vindam was as empty as the lands they had just left, not a person in sight. No movement, no wind. And then they had been besieged by arrows.

Another time, he told himself. Another day. When there was a shout of his name that echoed through the empty land, a roar of a wyvern, and the slight twinge of fear that something had gone wrong. Except, for the yell from Elise, as a great beast of a wyvern landed not three feet from him. Relief fills him, as no, not again, they did not fall to someone’s plan again, and it was only his family, rushing to meet him across the bridge.

Sliding from his horse, Marx greets Elise with an _oof,_ as she lands solidly against his middle. Any other time, he would not mind, but she crushed his arm against his chest, and he had to note just how strong she was getting. Training with Camilla, his mind provided, something in the way of an excuse when she finally released him, a full grin and a stream of tears. 

Running his thumb across the tops of her cheeks, Marx smiled. Maybe he had been gone for too long, and chided himself on his childishness, thinking his problems would disappear if he never returned. Elise cemented that feeling, as she hugged him once more, talking too fast for him to keep up, but he managed to get the gist of it — _welcome home!_

With an awkward pat, he managed to pry her off. Many of the men had wandered in, giving the royal family a berth, but the Garou lingered, as did the guard. Unsurprising, as he had to show the Garou to their new home, but their silence was just as worrisome as the growls that had occurred in the middle of the night.

Camilla had yet to dismount, Marx noticed. Whilst she stood, uncertainty had coloured her a dull pale that Marx could even tell from his distance. He did not have to guess who she was staring at, looking to the man at his left. Flannel was staring back, a certain longing in his face, despite the little wolf in his arms scrabbling to get away.

Like a breath of air running through those that remained outside, Marx took the lead, stepping forward. Slow and mechanic, Garou and human alike followed, no one immune to the tension. What did Camilla think I would do? Marx had to think. He felt no shame for her, only idle curiosity at how she had managed to hide a pregnancy away so well, and a certain sting of jealousy that she did not trust him enough to tell him. Did the others know? Marx’s mind provided a smug _probably_ , and the twist on his face must have stayed, if the sudden whip of emotion on Camilla’s was anything to go by.

“Camilla,” he greets warmly, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Her eyes did follow the movement, snapping away after a moment, as if weighing outcomes. 

“Marx!” A simple reply, as her eyes rolled through the crowd, lingering on Flannel who had fallen behind. “We had been waiting for your letter saying you would return home for weeks.”

“I sent one not three weeks prior.” 

Something flashes in her eyes that he cannot quite place. “It never made it.”

Odd, but Marx had almost expected it. At the time, he had been advised to send a second man, a day after the first. But Marx did not want to put another man’s life at risk to deliver a simple letter. Or give the wax seal of the royal family away, once more. Judging from how the men on the walls seemed to have scrambled to open the gates as well, the soldier they had sent running a day ahead to pass message they were home had gone too. Pursing his lips, Marx let his eyes look back over at Camilla, who had once again appeared out of focus, a muscle jumping in her cheek. 

“Elise, ride back with your sister to the castle. We will join you soon.” It was like moving a piece on the board, forcing the other party to awaken, to realise. Marx did not want to use Elise as he was, a pat on her back as she slowly walked back over to Camilla, but there was no telling just what Camilla was thinking. Perhaps, when it was just them, she would talk. 

Camilla gives him a long look, still as undecipherable as ever. Did none of his siblings trust him to talk to him? A part of him remembered Camilla’s talk during the war, about the absence, about the distance. Then, Marx did not trust those of his siblings that still remained in Vindam — and rightly so, as they were attacked on sight upon their return. Favouritism, he had echoed, was not something he could afford to show. Camilla had been appeased, he had foolishly assumed, but nothing had been bridged.

Sliding back onto his horse, Marx had to take account that Harold had not dismounted, before setting his eyes forward. No, he needed to get the Garou on castle grounds, before anymore interruptions, any whispers of betrayal. There was no time to consider his siblings, their retainers (even his own livelihood) when a pack of wolves sat at his heels, growing growls managing to spook his warhorse.

Marx sat at the head, leading the way inside, eyes locked forward. Bridges ran, left and right, some broken from fights, others in just states of disrepair. Even in the dim light, Marx could still see the stains under foot, could almost see the etchings on the wall, where more than one person had been burnt alive. A muscle in his back twinges, as he remembers when he had nearly been thrown from the edge, one of his brothers pushing him back. Marx did not remember his name.

Ahead, finally, there was a scattering of lamps, fire burning bright. Home, Marx sighed. Despite his grievances at returning to such a place, it was the immeasurable surge of emotion that got him. Castle Krakenstein was his home, after all, and no amount of running away would change that. Around him, the royal guard fanned out, swords raised, an announcement made.

“Flannel,” he spoke up, finally, as he dismounted. “The grounds are past the northern fortress. For now, rest in the Castle, and we will leave early tomorrow.”

“Alright…” Flannel responds slowly, not looking Marx in the eye as he had only earlier that morning. At a loss, of how to simply address the situation, Marx did not linger. 

Passing his horse off to a stablehand, he simply walked ahead, Harold and Benoit at his sides. Arm not in its sling, Marx was finally feeling the burn, fingers flexing as the great wooden doors were heaved open. Castle Krakenstein always smelt musty, despite the sheer number of people sweeping the floor. Yet, it was familiar and dry, despite the cold in the walls. Here, in the hall leading to sweeping staircases, a great chandelier overhead, Marx finally allowed himself a small smile.

Garou milled in behind him, slow and cautious. A few had changed form, and Marx made no comment, despite the alarm on the faces of those servants who hurried past. Expected, as Garou to many people were simply fairytales still, greatly exaggerated stories still used to scare children into bed at a reasonable time. Definitely a fault, as people had a tendency to hunt out fairytales, and prove their worth.

“We have several rooms, if your people wish for it.” Flannel followed as Marx walked further into the hall, head only turning to spy the throne room off to the right. “I can have the beds made up.”

“How do you sleep with so much stone overhead?”

“Pardon?”

Flannel shivered, as if curling away, eyes on the ceiling. “What if it collapsed?”

“The Castle has never fallen.”

“Everything falls, one day.”

“I had not realised Garou were pessimistic.” Marx could not stop himself, closing his eyes as the words fell. There, he had finally fallen out of line, too caught up in the casual way Flannel spoke with him. Readying an apology, when Marx opens his eyes again, he is greeted by another toothy grin. It could have been considered charming, had his teeth not pointed so.

“I had not realised you were much for jokes, Marx. I like it.”

Frown deepening, Marx’s thanks came out more as a question, yet Flannel begins barking a laugh, squatting down and finally setting his daughter on the ground. She is simply a ball of fluff that rolls around, with various little yips, and legs still tangled up in the blanket she had been carried in, but Marx was truly fascinated. My niece, he thinks with a smile, as that tuft of hair in the centre of Velour’s head sticks up. It was not as much of a disturbing thought as he had once considered. 

Eventually, the Garou decide to linger by the entrance, the closest thing to natural light just at their reaches. Marx is dismissed, an odd sensation, as Flannel accepts blankets with a casual ease that had not been seen in months, maybe not ever. Relief; Marx is able to put a name to the emotion. Relief that they would be without a home any longer, and Marx watches the children scamper around, running between columns and candlesticks, knowing he did the right thing. 

With one last bow, Marx walks up the stairs. Harold left him at the top, Benoit walking Marx the way to his study, before turning back towards the gates. Marx had not seen Charlotte amongst the guard, but did not doubt she was amongst a crowd somewhere. Surely, the news of his return would spread soon enough. As would the news of his coronation.

Pressing his forehead against the wooden door, Marx took a moment to breathe, and turned. “Camilla, what is the matter?”

She lingered around his desk, fingers tapping idly at papers that had been left at his quick decision to go meandering around Nohr, as it had been so delicately put by Leon. Marx did wonder where his little brother had wandered off to himself, and buried that thought at the distress on Camilla’s face. “Are you ashamed?” she whispers, hands twisting in front of her. 

“Why would I be?”

Camilla only wore training leathers, but they were not fitted properly, and he noted she looked thinner in the face. Not meeting his eye, she turned again. “Before you left, we spoke of marriage. I… I did want to tell you, as to why I refused at first.”

“It did occur to me you were quite resolved in not leaving.”

Tension was thick in the room, and massaging his arm, Marx was not quite sure where to stand, whether to sit. Legs ached from the long ride, but from how Camilla paced, never looking him in the eye long enough, Marx wondered if his sitting would garner some order from her, a beginning to her half sentences. Perhaps it would remind her of father, he thought, bitterly, as he leaned against the desk. She would listen then.

“Are you well?” he asks, finally. “I was told childbirth would have been… painful.”

“Nothing worse than any punishment we received as children.” A sad sort of smile is on her face. “Flannel was beside himself. At least Velour survived… that was all that mattered to me.”

“Why did you not go with them?”

Camilla finally looks at him then, face pinched. “I thought it would be best for her to be amongst other Garou. You had left but… Marx… it was not safe here. I visited regularly while you away. But then the fire happened and I thought I lost them.

You brought them home, Marx, without even knowing.”

Silence falls, as Marx finally sits. Camilla does not relax, but a smile, one part forced, the rest unknown, rests on her face. “Why did you not tell me, Camilla. Had I known—”

“You still would have left to march, Marx. I know what you are like the best, after all.”

Marx shares his own small smile, as his eyes fall. “That you do.

“Now go, see your family. I am sure Flannel has thought I might kill him on the spot the entire march home.”

There is a slight shrug from Camilla, couple with a nod, as if she had expected such an action too. That hurt more than being lied to for the past eight months. Did they think he would cut a man down so easily? His stomach clenched uncomfortably, and his smile fell. Had how he presented himself still not changed in the last few months, no matter how much effort he had put in? 

Camilla pushes a few letters to the forefront of Marx’s vision, tapping the topmost one. “He has been writing again, Marx.”

Marx had no need to read the handwriting, knowing just who she was referring to. “That is not your concern.”

Sighing, Camilla straightens her back, folding her arms. “You should respond.”

Gritting his teeth, Marx stands again. “Do not interfere, Camilla. It is not your place.”

Perhaps it was the tone, or the words, but the flash on Camilla’s face was akin to being slapped. Stepping back, Camilla looked cloudy, unable to quite keep Marx’s eye. Marx realised his mistake, and reached for her, but she was at the door not a moment later. “Apologies, my lord brother, I have overstepped my boundaries.”

“Camilla, wait!”

Door closing behind her, Marx dropped his hand and sighed. Again, he had done it again. Pushed his siblings away just when he was finding a reason to reconcile. Fingers landed on the letter, his name spread across in the standard language, as if there was no care for what men might snatch it away, if they had the opportunity. “Lord Ryouma,” he sighs, and holds it up to the light. 

And there, in simple ink on torn paper, was the root of his problems, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you've already started writing a post-invisible kingdom fic of varying length detailing the return to nohr
> 
> i'm gonna burn out soon thank god i have this all planned though
> 
> notes are located: [here](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/144900944705/)


	4. Night terrors

Hoshido was always surprisingly warm. Even years after first setting foot in the country, it was the absolute warmth that always got to Marx first. Followed by the sheer amount of foliage, and the inevitable sneezing that would happen after walking headfirst into a low hanging tree with flowers in full bloom. Eyeing the tree, as he is pulled from it with a laugh, Marx could not quite place the name to the flower, but it was one that the Hoshidans spoke of highly. Any attempts to pronounce the proper word were never going to be made, and he simply turned away.

Ryouma thought it was a hilarious venture, hands tucked away into his sleeves, as they walked side by side. Shirazaki had been kind, far kinder than Marx had expected them to be, especially when he considered the last decade. Maybe the outcome of the war had changed the people and their opinions, or perhaps it had been persuasive wording from the charismatic Prince Ryouma, Marx could not say. There had been a snide remark, something about how all those old enough to remember the old tension had likely died, but Marx did not appreciate that voice, and clamped down on it.

“You seem distracted. Careful you do not walk into another tree, Prince Marx.”

Perhaps it was the inevitable frown on his face that drew another laugh from Ryouma, but Marx chose not to rise to the challenge. “The trees here hang far lower than home.”

“It was definitely a sight to see such trees in Nohr standing so tall.”

Raising his eyebrows, Marx does not miss the twist of lips on Ryouma’s face. “Just proof of their resilience, perhaps.”

“Easily brought down by a simple blow, however.” There was no mistaking the barely there twinkle in the corner of Ryouma’s eye, as his tongue caught on the words. Marx would have groaned — out of embarrassment or disbelief, he could not decide — had he not pressed just that fraction closer, despite the weather.

“A simple blow? You give far little credit, Prince Ryouma, for those trees that you speak so highly of have such an easy bend, an easy tension, to break.”

“And yet I saw you just now admiring the bend that you talk so easily of breaking, my good Prince Marx.” Eyes flicking up, Ryouma meets him with a smile that stretches from ear to ear, and their shoulders bump just so. 

Marx could not deny just how coincidental it all was, and clasped his hands in front of him once more. Perhaps he could pass it to a simple slight in the weather, maybe even too warm for someone so used to such things. Sweat under his collar was surely just from the sun bearing overhead. “One can never deny such a beautiful thing as the trees bowing low, flowers spreading on the ground just under their roots.”

His words ran from him, but it was the colouring in Ryouma’s cheeks that gave him some confidence. A small burst, of course, but it had him keep a straighter back, as the _slap slap_ of Ryouma’s shoes only missed a step by a fraction. Would have been passed off as a catch on a stone, had Ryouma not led them off a beaten path. Marx could not keep up with his plans, as he walked a step ahead. No, perhaps it was two, with how Marx’s strides allowed him to keep up with ease. If there was time, Marx would consider mentioning it to him, just to see him burn a little harder.

“Prince Ryouma, perhaps we should return. No doubt your retainers are upset at the turn of events.”

“If you are speaking of Saizou, the man nannies me more than he should.”

“Not to offend, but you have been quite brash with judgement lately.”

“‘Not to offend’? Prince Marx,” and then he turns, hands raised and catching on Marx’s front. “I doubt you could ever offend me.”

Marx never gave Ryouma much credit at being able to break such fine tension so easily, with the way he presented himself to the public. So strong and earnest in his offence, no one would guess the man was quite headstrong, willing to throw himself into the forward line, into a rebel cause without a care for his own safety. It was something Marx had commented on, once or twice, just to earn a shrug. How Ryouma was just able to cast aside his own self for the sake of his people so easily baffled Marx.

“I do not think it wise for such things,” he murmurs, hands over Ryouma’s. Where his grip was cold, Ryouma’s was infinitely warm, like he carried his own personal sun, just in the palm of his hands.

“Something you always say, as if it might change _things_.”

Sighing, Marx pulls Ryouma’s hands free entirely, holding them between them. With a press of lips to each of Ryouma’s fingers, Marx finally lets him go. “It would do me no greater pleasure, Prince Ryouma, but our time might be up.”

Eyebrows raising, Ryouma had a mild look of irritation, and opens his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted. Gritting his teeth, Marx turns around, and calls out. “Elise, at least I can rest easy knowing you have no future as a ninja in this life.”

Marx does catch the small ‘o’ that Ryouma’s mouth forms, before an almost sheepish smile, as Elise emerges from the bushes. She was covered in leaves and petals, dragging Sakura behind her as if she was another culprit. Of course, Marx knew better, and simply brushed the debris from Elise’s head once she was close enough. Giggles, accompanied by half an attempt at talking herself out of snooping, with Sakura bowing deeply behind her. 

“Why are you not still in the castle?” Marx asks, hands on Elise’s shoulders. 

“I wanted to see the flowers,” Elise states, as if it was the most simple explanation in the world. Perhaps, it was, as Marx was not so blind to know of how things were back in Nohr, and how, when Elise was a child, they would import flowers to decorate the castle with. And yet it does not Marx from sighing once more, releasing Elise.

“It still is not safe to walk about on your own.” He can see the protest before he hears it, of how she was accompanied by Sakura. How it would be fine, Marx, of course it would be. Elise’s optimism did not waver, nor did the way she balled her fists. Before he had left, Camilla had told him to let her be herself, as if to soften the blow of what had happened in Valla, but surely Camilla could forgive Marx’s apprehension.

“Shall we return to the castle, then? Princess Elise, there is a garden inside the castle that Sakura tends to.”

A distraction, one that Marx knows Elise is not so blind as to see, but she takes the offering regardless. If a little annoyed, from the way she insisted on straying from the path to the castle. “Thank you,” Marx murmurs, when Elise had gone nearly ten paces ahead. “I must admit, I am still unsure how to handle her.”

“Princess Elise is a good person,” Ryouma says, without a look towards Marx. “I admire her optimism. And, she is a good influence on Sakura. Her presence here is deeply appreciated.”

“Elise would not let me come to Hoshido without her. She sat in the carriage with her case, and did not budge. It was quite the sight.” Marx has to laugh as he recalls leaving Nohr, and how Elise had insisted on joining him. Very persistently, as Marx had only told Camilla he was leaving, and had asked her to come instead. No doubt they had spoken to Elise, and Leon had pressed her into it.

Ryouma laughs, a full belly of a sound, that has their little sisters turn. Whilst he does not continue to comment, Marx enjoys the silence that follows, as they take the last few steps. Looking up at the trees ahead, and the way the light shines through leaves, Marx does have a thought. A simple, quiet one, of how nice it would be to live in Hoshido, under the sun. Something he knew would not be a possibility, deep down. 

But the wind was far sweeter in Shirazaki than it ever had been in Vindam.

It was time for dinner, by the time they were walking in. Perhaps it was not an embellishment, to say that Elise was a good influence on Sakura. But, Marx thought that Sakura was a good influence on Elise too, as he watched her walk on with a softer step, a slighter grace in hand. Not to say she might have acted the same way at home, but Elise was thunderous, and had always been caught running down the halls, far too energetic to sit in one place.

Watching her neatly fold her feet under her, despite bumping shoulders with Sakura and giggling about one thing or another, it was the manners she had expressed once, long ago, that she wanted to learn. Wanted to practice. Marx had a feeling she had not realised just how she was acting, and decided that may have been for the best. Elise’s slight tendency to focus so squarely on something once she realised still had not died.

Shifting, to sit with his legs crossed in front, Marx ignored the little cough from Ryouma, and focused on eating. Despite the ribbon tied to hold his chopsticks together, an insistence that even had Elise join in, Marx enjoyed himself. He enjoyed the banter, the digs, the overly embellished stories from Elise, with her hands waving and nearly knocking over a bowl, a cup and nearly throwing her utensils across the table. Sakura gasped at all the right parts, and Marx would have thought, any other day, that it was all structured, practiced while they were out wandering. 

Had it not been for Sakura looking at Elise so fondly when she spoke, and Elise unable to pull her attention away, Marx might have believed it was a series of scripted stories. Smiling into his cup, as Elise carried on, about the story of how Marx mounted a rowdy horse Garon had purchased from a trader. 

“Was that true?” Ryouma asks, once Elise had moved on, to how Camilla tamed her dragon. “You could have died.”

“I related to the horse at the time — being afraid of your own shadow,” Marx lets out a huff, and looks out the corner of his eye. “That horse, Bucephala, was my best friend.”

“I am pleased to learn something.”

“What?”

Ryouma knocks their shoulders once more. Apparently he had drunk more wine than Marx had noticed. “Even the Crown Prince of Nohr has a streak of recklessness in him.”

Flushing, Marx tries to cover his embarrassment with his hand, lowering his cup. “I was young. As you said, I could have died. At any moment, that horse could have trampled me.”

“Perhaps, _Marx,_ you just cannot give yourself enough credit for the things you have accomplished.”

Ears burning, Marx could feel the colour spread, running down the sides of his neck. Warm, this time a different kind, that did not come from strolls in the sunlight. Tenderness, from the way Ryouma’s tongue had wrapped around his name, like a brief flash of his mother tongue emerging. Far too personal, for dining at a table with their youngest siblings present. There was no response, as Marx could not tear himself away from Ryouma’s heavy gaze. 

“Oh, Prince Takumi!”

And yet, something else wanted him to. Ryouma is the first to turn, a dip of the head as Takumi gives a short bow. Yet, Elise stood, a scramble to her feet that Marx focused on the most. Sakura says something, probably just a passing greeting, as Takumi sits beside her, but Marx could see the attention shift to Elise too, as she sat once more. No more grace, just sheer excitement as she talks faster than she can form actual words, slipping into their shared mother tongue. Perhaps it was the confusion on their Hoshidan hosts’ faces, as she coloured and repeated herself, but Marx kept an eye on the shift in mood.

The way Ryouma sat, chin in hand, as he watched his siblings. “Where is Hinoka?” he asks, once Elise quietened enough to get a word in.

Takumi does not meet Ryouma’s eye as he speaks. Odd, Marx thinks. “She left for the Wind Tribe’s holdings. They sent a request for assistance.”

Nodding, Ryouma does not explain, leans back and says something aside as a man appears, as quiet as a mouse. Marx assumed that was Saizou, the one that he had heard at great length about, from not only Ryouma, but Suzukaze. Whilst Ryouma seemed to think the man was inflexible, and quite limiting in letting him do as he pleased, Suzukaze spoke highly of his brother and his abilities.

As Ryouma settled back, his retainer practically vanished into thin air — a concept that Marx was sure he would never quite get used to. People disappearing at the click of his fingers made him uncomfortable. Opting to not focus on the corner of the room, trying to see if he turned his head just so and see someone appear, he watched the youngest in front of him once more. 

Takumi was surprisingly chatty, something that Leon had insisted he was not. Or, he was drawn into having to respond to Elise’s insistence that _yes_ , Leon had dropped an entire building over himself once when practicing magic whilst younger was true, and _yes_ , they would never let him live it down. Marx had half a mind to think the prince was just trying to find more tidbits to rile up his own brother about in a letter later, that no doubt they would hear about in a month’s time. 

He also had half a mind not to interrupt, not with a hand nudging his own, Marx’s gaze drops between where they sat for a brief moment, before sliding his little finger over Ryouma’s. “You have been behaving oddly,” he mumbles, lowering his cup once more. 

“I would say I rather feel relaxed,” Ryouma’s response is immediate, no pause for worry.

“As I said: odd.”

“One night, out of a hundred, to just enjoy the company of an old friend.”

Something in the way he said it so simply cut something in Marx. “‘Friend’?”

“Is that not what you are?”

“Well—” There were a number of other words Marx would have attached to their affair of sorts. ‘Friend’ was not one of them, not after what they had done. Or perhaps, Ryouma did not feel the same. Had he always felt this way? Worries clamoured over Marx, as his cup was refilled, and he sculled the next lot of wine before anyone had a chance to comment.

“Tomorrow, I wish to discuss the increase in trade between our countries.”

“Of course.” And he moved on, like not a simple word had fractured something so great in Marx. That was something that Marx had always ignored, that little part of Ryouma that moved on so easily. Perhaps too easily, as he had first come to Marx not long after the passing of the leader of the rebellion. Marx, like many others, had assumed they had been together, for several months. Ryouma’s single-mindedness, in being able to keep on, was not always something to be proud of.

“It was suggested to me, the other day, but we should consider a marriage too, between the royal families.”

Marx coughs then. Hand on his back, patting him, is just that little more foreign now, despite the laughter that accompanies an action. Servants clean up, as he waves of the attention. Attempting to shrug off the hand that did not leave, simply dropping to the small of his back, Marx was not sure where to start. “Marriage,” he echoes, “w-who did you wish to marry?”

Ryouma rumbles. “I had already asked Princess Camilla, during the war. She turned me down easily.”

Prior to leaving for Hoshido, Marx had spoken with Camilla. She had not made her efforts in having no part of the court life obvious, from blatantly ignoring letters, to setting several of them on fire. Their return to Nohr also begged for some action, against having presence in that life. But she had been the one to bring up marriage on her own. Marx had told her to marry who she wanted, to enjoy her life, and then she had protested. Such an odd thing, Marx had simply swept it away, as something he would talk to her later about. It explained her apparent nerves, and her turning down the offer to join them in Hoshido. 

“You asked Camilla… but, why?”

“My hold on the throne may go undisputed, but it would be shaky. I have an obligation to produce an heir,” Ryouma makes a face then, as if the idea of children was not a particularly attractive one, and continued. “A wife would keep the vultures at bay.

“No doubt the Nohrian court thinks the same thing…?” he trails off, with a questionable gaze, and Marx is not sure where to look.

“I have not yet been coronated, as we had only just regained the city. All traitors have been executed, and, as I am the only son of the queen, unless another name is put forward, my hold is safe.”

“You have faith your name will not be overlooked.”

“A marriage would not secure my place when I have a unanimous ruling.”

“Marriage to a Hoshidan noble would be something that would not be so easily overlooked.”

“Why are you forcing the idea of marriage? Unless…” Marx’s eyes widen, and he does not miss the way that Ryouma does not meet his gaze. “When?” he croaks, “when did this happen?”

“After you left, the first time.” Ryouma frowns, a deep look that ages him significantly. “Once the war had ended, and you had recovered and returned to Nohr… I wanted to tell you. I had nearly asked Hinoka to accompany me to Vindam, but…”

“May I ask who?”

A slight shake of the head. “I have not… I do not… Prince Marx, I do not think it would be wise, just yet, to talk of that.”

“Yet you were the one who brought up the topic in the first place.”

“Only for light conversation…”

Pushing himself to his feet, Marx gave one last look down at Ryouma. “As I had told you during our time in Valla: marriage ruined my father. It is not something I take lightly.”

And he leaves, with a quick bow to Takumi and Sakura. Elise follows, as if it was some cue for bed, but Marx does not explain when she asks him why he had decided to return to his quarters. It was for the best, he decided, when he sees her to her room. As Marx lay in his own room, bringing the futon over his head, he knew happiness was not meant for people like him

 

“Brother, may I have a word — _oh_!”

Marx gives a start, nearly dropping his head as he wakes. Blinking, at the form of Leon standing in the doorway, he simply motions for his brother to join him. “Apologies. I have been working all night and have not slept much.”

“Yes, Camilla said you were overseeing the papers regarding the expansion to the library. Considering opening one to the public.”

“Mmm.” Marx sighs, and digs through the papers on his desk. “An architect had apparently supplied father with sketches years ago.”

“We found them when we were going through his room.” Leon is short, clipped. Not looking him in the eye. Marx remembered that he had called young Takumi odd for doing so, as if he could not force himself to meet his brother’s gaze. Was Leon the same? Was there something about Marx that did not make him want to see halfway?

“I was going to contact the man, see if he was still interested in assisting with development.”

“Marx, why did you leave? It was quite out of character for you to suddenly depart on a venture around Nohr.”

“To approach our countrymen. As you said before I left, most have never seen the royal family, let alone interacted with them.”

“Something affected you in Hoshido, did it not? Elise said you had begun acting strange not long after arriving, and I thought —”

“Enough! Do not speak of things you do not understand!” Marx bellowed, a shocking sound, one he did not recognise as his own voice. The effect on Leon was immediate, a slap to the face by any other name, as he bowed his head immediately.

“I overstepped, my apologies, I did not mean to offend you. If it would be best, I should take my leave.”

“Wait, Leon, do not leave!”

Chair scraping the ground as he hurries after, Marx finally notices the rug was missing, one that was a gift from a Nestrian trader. He noticed how books were missing in the shelves, and how there was still several unsorted piles on the ground. “I did not mean to shout,” he says, hand holding onto Leon’s arm. “You have been working hard, that I know. More than anything, and I—”

Leon does not look at him, hand still on the door. With one last flick of eyes, one last tug against the grip that held him in place, Leon speaks up. “You were never a good liar, brother.” Throwing the door open, Leon takes advantage of the stumble from Marx, and flees, leaving Marx alone once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notesssss are: [here, as always](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/144900999760/)


	5. Friends in low places

Digging his heels lightly into the horse’s flank, Marx presses forward through the city. Since he had confirmed with the architect that he would like to continue construction with the library, they had found more and more papers buried, of work needed, things to be built. Each time one of them would remark it was unlike Garon to be so careless, Marx had noticed it was a quiet thought, that he was not the same in the end. As if to justify something, that their father had not been all bad.

Yet Marx shakes his head, determined of not thinking such a thing now, and pressed forward. Too much was weighing on the reconstruction of a well in the eastern quarters, one that had been damaged during his absence during the war. Those who still remained above ground, and had not fled during the coup of the city, were just barely holding on, and apparently scavenging had become so commonplace it was happening in the middle of the day. Many in the castle had vehemently argued against Marx going out onto the streets, after only returning to the capital three months prior, but it needed to be done.

“We are not far now, Lord Marx.” Ahead, Zero finally speaks, voice just barely carrying. Since Marx had asked for his assistance specifically, he had seemed far quieter than he normally appeared. A sour look had appeared on both he and Leon’s faces, but Marx did not have enough energy in him to discern the reason. He wanted nothing more than for Leon to lay out for him what he should do, what he should improve upon, but since his outburst, Leon had been scarce.

So too had Camilla, which did not surprise Marx altogether. A week prior, he had visited the Northern Fortress, and found that she had found toys they had kept that had once been Kamui’s. Old blankets, clothes, and even a boxful of ribbons, had all been dragged from various rooms. Velour had been absolutely fascinated, digging through every little thing, making a nest of the simplest things in the far corner of one of the rooms. Maybe it was a distraction for Camilla, to watch her daughter roll about, enjoying something that had once belonged to their sibling, and to experience it again. Marx had known how Camilla had felt when Kamui had said their farewells, and opted to travel for a time — he was sure he felt the same, to some length. 

Not having his sibling so close was something he was starting to feel. It was as if, whenever he looked to his right, he expected them to be there. A charming smile or an encouraging quip at the ready. Whilst Elise had helped them pack their bag, and Leon had been the last one to see them go, Marx had sat with Camilla, and lamented their leaving. 

Clenching his jaw, Marx did not want to dwell on their absence. Simple other things were there to be worried about, such as his coronation that was just upon him almost. How Velour seemed to be healing well, gaining more use of her legs, even if she was teething poorly. That Elise had picked up her violin lessons again, and had begun asking for dancing lessons. 

And, of course, the way that Zero held up his hand, halting their merry little band, to dismount. “We should walk the rest of the way,” is all he says, and Marx trusts his word. Leading their horses by the reins, Marx begins to understand why.

Ducking, under broken beams, Marx does not comment on the state of the buildings. He could not find the words, that would make him appear sympathetic, that would help him to understand. Pursing his lips, Marx steps around fallen bricks, and they slip through several houses, cracked and open. Zero is too focused on the road ahead, and behind, Flannel’s ears prick, only once, before flattening against his head.

“Be careful.” His whisper rolls with a faint growl, and Marx looks over his shoulder, almost expecting shadows to jump. 

“Through this house is the well.” Zero’s response is clipped, but he speaks the truth. 

A large area opens, a market square, maybe, once upon a time. Marx does not miss the crumbling buildings, or the still there marks along the stone under their feet. Stepping over one dip in the road in particular, it was almost as if someone had driven a particularly large axe through someone’s head. Ah, Camilla, he thinks, and does not dwell on the matter when a rather skinny man comes into his view.

“My lord, you arrived!”

Smile tightening just a fraction, Marx did not react much beyond that to the jumpy bow and the attempt to shake his hand. It was as if the man could not decide if he would go that much further, and took a look at Flannel and Zero, to Marx’s right and left, and decided against it. For the first time in a long time, Marx found that particularly amusing, that he was not viewed as the most frightening thing in a room. Far too long it had been since that had happened, and something almost like relief went through Marx.

As they walk closer to the centre of the square, where tables had been set up, maps strewn across and various little devices, Marx notes the clouds overhead. They were beginning to darken again. For the past few days, they had been lucky, with the rain only reducing to a light shower, just barely flicking out water. Ducking under what makeshift tenting had been drawn up, Marx wondered if it would hold out until the plans were finalised.

“So, Lord Marx, we will begin excavation tomorrow. Since the, uh, _accident_ , that befell this quarter, many of the people in the area have either died or fled. It has left the area in quite a state of disrepair, as you can see.”

“‘Accident’?” Finally, he can feel the muscles in his forehead move, as surprise colours his tone. “Speak freely, my good man. It was not a simple accident that caused several quarters of the city to burn.”

No, it was my family, he mused, as he watched the architect’s eyes flick between Marx, and then men standing behind him. Weighing up his options of saying the truth, Marx knew, and did not press. He would welcome the criticism, as to how in the few months leading to the ends of the war in Valla, the city had been taken by his glory-seeking family. In particular, the land they stood on now, was where those of his army had returned to fight back, making camp in broken areas.

Awkwardly the man laughs, and does not speak. Instead, he leads them to where they had set up, and Marx ducks under the low hanging cloth to see. Flannel perched himself just out the way, and jokingly makes a quip about being a guard dog that has Zero snort. That is the last Marx sees or hears of Zero, as he makes himself scarce. 

There was not enough time to dwell on how polite Zero had been for the trip, as Marx was pulled into costs and stone, fingers tracing over maps. The well itself had been one of the few in the area, linked to what little of the water was kept and stored underground. Surprising, considering that many of their people had lived underground, and felt no need to tamper with the water supply. 

Or it was simply another thing that had gone ignored for so long, it was commonplace.

Marx did not linger on that thought, as they discussed the projected finish time. It would not be as long as he had anticipated, but of course, they required guards. Manpower. Something to assure the nervous architect that an incident that had happened several years prior would not happen again. Of course, this was news to Marx, hearing of how the soldiers meant to protect against thieves and bandits had been pulled at the last minute, do to some whimsy noble’s wishes, but Marx apologised regardless.

When he stopped looking, it was as if things started to fall through. Marx was not blind to how those of the Nohrian Court had behaved, especially in recent years. There was a thought, in the back of his mind, to dismantle the system, and how their simple wants and needs affected Nohr as a whole. But Marx kept that thought under lock and key, perhaps a little too treacherous for what was needed.

Several hours passed, idle discussion becoming the only thing Marx could think of. Mentions of the weather, and how it was slowing down construction on the library drastically. How the south-western quarters had had a sudden influx of those looking to escape the weather. As they spoke, Marx only found more and more problems that had been left untouched, and could not deny the growing pain that normally went hand-in-hand with thinking about what his father had become.

“Lord Marx, it is getting late. We should return to the castle soon.” Finally, Zero interrupts, a low bow to accompany his voice. Marx nodded, but could not help gazing out the corner of his eyes. There had been no order given to interrupt, and he had not expressed anything in conversation to leave. Had Marx shown something on his face to suggest otherwise?

But Marx does not press him, unsure how to handle such a man. It was something akin to discomfort, having that one blue eye watch him so intensely. Marx was used to being watched by people who knew nothing about him, but having Zero, who kept such close company with his brother, stare him down, was just that little more frightening.

As they depart from the well, Flannel chats away to fill up the space. Marx does not take much notice, as Flannel’s noise fills in how empty the streets are, how it feels like the walls were watching him. Catching bits, about Velour, the castle, the hunting grounds, Marx nearly misses the tidbits about his coronation and the arrival of the Hoshidan Royal family.

“Camilla was saying how their response letter was saying the entire family would arrive.”

Zero is the one who reacts. “Is that so? Even the young prince and princess?” His tone betrayed nothing, careful and even. Odd that he was picking out the youngest two from the family, however; something Marx noted with a raised brow.

Flannel grins, and nods. “Apparently so! King Ryouma said something about how they were looking forward to it.” In a smaller voice, Flannel keeps going. “At least, I think that is what Camilla said… I fell asleep not long after.”

Marx did not jerk at the name, but could feel the muscles in his jaw tighten significantly. With each day passing day, his coronation drew closer. And as such, it meant the arrival of the Hoshidan family would be upon them soon — almost any day now. They had sent word three days prior that they would all be in attendance. Whilst Marx had relinquished the letter to Camilla, to then pass on to the required staff, he had not anticipated idle gossip. Something he should have expected, he amends, with how Flannel mentioned little things that Camilla had been doing in the Northern Fortress. A part of him knew he should have expected a nursery, too.

“The Lady Camilla seems in far better health these days, as well.” Again, sharp and to the point. Marx had been warned against Zero’s manner, but he was seriously beginning to doubt it.

At the comment, it is Flannel who turns dour. “Y-yes. She is not in as much pain. At least, that is what she says.” A forced laugh, and Marx does not have to turn to know what Flannel’s exact expression might have been. “I advised her against it.”

“Lord Leon told me.”

“Oh! She said Le—Lord Leon,” a correction, hastily added, at the dark look, “was there.”

There? As they are free of the buildings, streets just wide enough to allow two horses side by side, Marx notes the turn. It was as if he was not there, but Zero’s words told him otherwise. Each one was specifically chosen, and Marx had yet to figure out why. Perhaps it was how freely Flannel spoke which allowed Zero to work it to an advantage. Or, perhaps Marx was just reading into the entire situation, his lack of retainers becoming more and more apparent with the lack of trust between him and others — especially those sworn to his siblings.

Swinging his leg up and over, settling on the saddle, Marx motioned for Zero to lead. They talked further, Flannel discussing how Camilla had nearly passed during childbirth, and Marx tightened his grip on the reins. “Why did she not say?!” He demanded, after a moment, as if Flannel had just realised present company.

“She… she did not want you to worry…”

“And finding out through people months later was going to alleviate my concern?”

No one went to comment, and Marx had to force himself not to drive the point home further. What did Camilla feel she achieved by covering up her pregnancy, and nearly fatal childbirth? Marx had pressed all servants for information, had tracked down healers, who had spent hours trying to stem the flow of blood. Every time he had gone to Camilla, to ask her why, why she had hidden it from him, she had found something else to divert her attention to. 

And Leon had made himself scarce, only present during meetings with officials and local lords when he was called upon. It was a very lonely place, Marx had found himself at, even unable to turn to Elise for some sort of word when he had kept her so far out of the picture. It was times like these when Marx wished he had the company of Lazwald and Pieri once more. More notably Lazwald, as Pieri had begun to make time, to walk into the castle and into his study without a care in the world. 

“Lady Camilla — and Lord Leon — only wished for you to return safely from your travels to Hoshido.” Zero does not turn as he speaks, but the mention of Leon was not accidental. 

“Camilla was not at the castle when I returned from Hoshido with Elise, and Leon had been preoccupied,” pausing, Marx does not try to hold the bite from his voice, “A warm welcome, indeed.” Now, as Marx thought about it, Camilla’s unexplained absence after their return from Hoshido had a reason, at the sudden flick of Flannel’s ears, one Marx had begun to associate with nerves. Leon’s lack of greeting still remained the mystery, one that Elise had thrown her hands up over especially. “As Leon’s retainer, I am sure you knew of his whereabouts that night?”

“He had retired to his room, unwell.” That was not what Elise had said, Marx knows. Elise has said something far different.

But he simply replies with an “of course,” and leaves it. And yet it just begged where he had been after Marx had returned from his time around Nohr. But from how Zero was now effectively moving them faster out of the city, than the time taken to reach the well, Marx was sure he would not get an answer in time. Half-answers, he would expect, but the whole truth would remain unheard. It was a tiring game, one Marx had not expected to play with his family.

And yet Marx discarded his tact, pressing his horse forward to ride abreast. “Where was Leon the day I returned, when I brought Flannel with me?”

Flannel mumbles something, but does not interrupt. Not as Zero does not turn to look at Marx, slow and deliberate, horse coming to a stop. Marx stops a way ahead, looking back, as Zero seemed to be contemplating answering. Would Marx be overstepping, demanding a response, using his name and authority to do so? But would Zero be as honest as he could be, without a threat hanging over his head. Marx had still not heard the story of how Leon had found Zero in his company, and he was not sure he wanted to hear it.

Finally, Zero speaks, as if he was finished deliberating. “Handling your affairs, Lord Marx.”

Opening his mouth to retort, Marx does not get an opportunity as Flannel pushed through, having dismounted. Hands in their air, he kept himself between the men on their horses, air shifting around him as he looked between them. Resting his hand on the pommel of his sword, Marx simply stared over Flannel, noting how Zero remained as cool as he had when Marx had asked for his assistance in traversing the city. The only difference between now and then was a nocked arrow, string not pulled taught but resting between fingers.

“I always appreciate Leon’s work.” Marx was not sure who he was justifying himself to, as both men stared up at him, but he continued. “He has always been far more invested in bettering the life of the Nohrian people. That is something I will never deny.”

Zero simply blinked, slowly and thoughtful, and tilted his head slightly. “Of course, there is no room for argument there, Lord Marx.

“And yet it does beg the question as to why you left before you were to be coronated.”

Flannel lets out a _whoosh_ of breath, and perhaps thought it was safer to remove himself now, opting to clamber back up onto his horse. Marx did not judge him for the movement, far too focused with how Zero tried to push his horse forward.

“Are you speaking for yourself, Zero… or for Leon?”

Zero does not respond, only smooth action as he draws his bow up. There is a shout from Flannel, about “pointing that thing at the _crown prince!?_ ” which Marx chooses to ignore. A gurgle emanates from behind his left shoulder, and at the way Zero slowly lowers his bow says just enough.

“Again, was that your response, or Leon’s?”

Not meeting his eye, Zero pushes them on, Marx falling into step beside Flannel, who was beside himself. “Not doing a very good job, guard dog,” is all Zero has for either of them, and the comment colours Flannel something livid.

“He had been tailing us, Marx,” he whispers, apparently quite spiteful of the comment. Any other time, it might have reminded him of Elise and how she got when Leon teased her particularly hard, but that man had gotten a little too close. “Since we entered the first building.”

“I see. Are there more?”

Flannel’s expression darkens, which was enough of a response for Marx. 

“They are not following us, explicitly, however,” Zero finally speaks up, as they round another corner. Marx was aware of this area, and knew they were beginning to get close to the main road which led to the square. And from there, the castle entrance. “Maybe something else has caught their attention?”

Pressing forward, they rounded three corners and ended up on the main road. Marx wracked his brain, trying to figure out what had perhaps caught the attention of whatever bandits were lying in wait. For so long, the Nohrian market had become scarce, and was not worth much in the way of shaking down customers. A long time ago, Marx had been told it was a bustling hub of activity. But there was nothing there now, not anything of note at least.

As they had left the quarters now, with no more beams hanging overhead to catch the rain, Marx found they could not see that much further ahead. “Zero!” He shouts, as the further they marched to the castle, the harder the water fell. “Find the guard and bring them to the square!”

“And if they ask what the purpose is?” Zero turns, and Marx had not remembered a time when he had ever questioned Leon further, for orders. 

“Tell them our Hoshidan guests have arrived. Go!”

“Of course…” Marx just barely catches the words over the rain, Flannel looking over at him in wonder. “How did you know?”

Marx waits for Zero to disappear from view, before he turns. “I have never truly believed in having a ‘gut feeling’,” he frowns, and directs his horse towards the entrance to Vindam. “But I believe this is what they mean.”

Flannel follows closely, as they race to the entrance. Marx was not lying, when he said he did not believe in such a feeling. Careful planning, thoughtful movements and quick reflexes had always benefited his battle, not just a cautionary feeling that something may have been behind the door. Why would he approach the door, anyway, if there was nothing to gain from going through each one? The laughter in the back of his mind is familiar, and sets his teeth on edge. But it warms his skin under soaked cloth, and what few torches had remained lit finally came into view. 

Something that morning had told him to overlook the roster, and to assign Charlotte to the gate.

“Lord Marx?!” And he had never been more relieved to see the shock on her face as they took cover. “What are you — _Flannel_?!”

“Charlotte!” Marx does not have to look over to imagine just how Flannel’s tail might have been waving furiously. “What are the chances?”

“Yes, no kidding, I cannot believe you are —“ Charlotte stops herself, clearing her throat. A serious look comes over her face, as she stares firmly up at Marx. Something akin to pride fills him, seeing her like that. It almost makes him forget his reason for rushing to the gate. “Lord Marx, what seems to be the matter? There was no need for you coming out this way by yourself.”

Letting out a slow breath, Marx calms himself. There was no need to panic. If they had thought the Hoshidan family to be the targets, they had not run into them yet. Likely, they were still travelling. Any traps laying in wait in the square would probably be vacated once the guard arrived. “Charlotte,” he says firmly, hand brushing water and hair out of his eyes. “Has the Hoshidan family arrived yet?”

“No, sir, but we can confirm they will arrive any minute now.” For a moment, Charlotte just stares at him, confusion colouring her face. Stepping closer, she lowers her voice. “Is something the matter, Lord Marx? You… you look worried.”

He had forgotten what it was like to talk to her so simply. “I believe they might be targeted when they enter the town square. Or worse, just outside our reach of the capital.”

Charlotte snorts. “Big fancy carriage. Easy target.” At the look on his face, she smiles. “Have a little faith in us. We will not let anyone touch that carriage.”

“I always have faith in you,” he says, and dismounts. “If you do not mind, I would like to wait for them to arrive as well.”

“So charming, Lord Marx, as always,” simple laughter, before she turns her attention on Flannel. “And just what do you think you are doing here, Flannel?”

Flannel’s fur stands up on end at being addressed so suddenly, and Marx simply stands back to watch. Watching Charlotte just about pull him from his horse and give him a good hard punch to the shoulder, something about not writing, how a bug does not constitute as a present, and their chatter dissolves into discussion of his daughter. 

Deciding, that perhaps, he was not needed, Marx sends on look in the direction of the castle. He had hoped Zero had managed to at least reach Felicia, or Pieri. Convincing them to tighten security along the main road and the square further was paramount, and some part of him had not taken into account what those who had spread to the far corners of the capital might have planned. 

Marx had to appreciate however that the arrival of the Hoshidan royal family was still undetermined. Whilst they were arriving within the week, it was still a surprise to hear they were within the capital’s reach on this particular day. If there had been a leak of information, Marx hoped that those who planned to attack on the way to the castle would not be at full strength based on what ifs.

Of course, they were so close, and with each passing moment, Marx began to think less of his worries of traversing the roads back to the castle. Charlotte and Flannel had begun to talk again, far louder, something about marriage. Grimacing, Marx stares at a spot across the road, and wills himself not to listen in, not matter how much his gaze fell on how Charlotte continued to press Flannel further. It was like someone was playing a joke on him, reminding him about duty and idle conversation. 

But finally, Charlotte releases her hold on Flannel, and jogs out to greet a man. Hushed whispers, and she turns back with a smile. “They have arrived, Lord Marx. Unharmed, just as I said.”

“I never doubted your word.”

Standing to the side, Marx ignores how Charlotte drives her elbow into Flannel’s side, forcing him back. He ignores a voice, nagging about marriage and duty, and its importance over his own desires. Marx only notes, how the rain finally begun to lighten to a light shower, as carriages of Nohrian design pulled up. 

For a moment, Marx holds his breath, steeling himself for what might happen next. As the door clicks open, he is greeted by a broad man, edging his way out of the door, a hand pushing his hair back. It was his voice, as he spoke, that might have broken Marx. A flick of shock, that was not hidden fast enough, as Ryouma raised his eyes.

“Prince Marx?” He blinks, slowly, as if not quite believing his eyes. Ryouma had not quite stepped out of the carriage, as if unsure of what was to follow. Not that Marx blamed him, after how he had departed Hoshido all those months ago.

And, Marx was not sure why he was there either, but clasping his hands behind his back, he ignored it. Ignored the way his stomach clenched, as Ryouma finally landed with both feet on the floor. Straightening his back, Marx commanded away every nervous feeling, and imagined himself somewhere else, where his socks were not drenched, and the source of his anxiety was not staring at him in a way he could not understand. “Welcome, Prince Ryouma, to Vindam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sick of looking at the map of vindam/windmire it is like imprinted in my brain by now
> 
> also i love charlotte my girl. My Number One. Marry Me.
> 
> notes are, again: [here](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/144901084635/)


	6. les Rois du Monde

Ever since he was a child, Marx found he did not like the stuffy, official uniforms he had been forced into for the great parties. Of course, he never complained outwardly, lest someone overheard, but the material was always itchy, and too tight around the chest and thighs, making seating awkward. Marx had hoped, that the day of his coronation he could perhaps fix the problem of fancy clothing, but alas, he was wrong.

Back straight, Marx simply stared into the mirror, watching as several women behind him, including Camilla, flitted about. There were comments, about how his hair had grown stiff in the Nohrian rain, too dry, would it be too late to cut it. He had not thought his hair would affect the entire ceremony, until Camilla shooed them out, telling them to tend to Elise and her hair instead. Marx still did not understand the importance of his hair, but now that the room was clear, save for himself and Camilla, he could find himself breathing a little easier.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, when she appears behind him with a brush. A headache was starting to _thump thump_ behind his right eye, and it was only a matter of time until it potentially blinded him. Something he resigned himself to just dealing with later, after he could wipe his hand of the entire ceremony.

“Of course,” Camilla responds, dragging the brush through his hair. “They were beginning to wear on me too.”

Making an affirmative noise, Marx does not consider lingering on those who had been tasked with making him appear appropriate. “How is Velour?”

A soft smile lights up Camilla’s face, and Marx knows he chose the right question. Slowly, but surely, Camilla had begun to glow, now having Velour close. Motherhood suited her, and despite her grievances at being able to raise her daughter properly, something she had shared only _once_ over a bottle of wine when they were sorting through papers. Slowly but surely, it was like something had gone right for Camilla for once, and she was embracing that moment entirely. 

“Beautiful.” Camilla’s voice did not waver, but there was no denying how she felt. Proud, delighted, excited. 

Marx had made sure that presenting Velour to the court would happen, in some respect. They had worked too hard for Camilla’s joy to be simply pushed aside. Camilla had argued, that it was supposed to be about Marx’s work being acknowledged, something to which Marx had only reminded her that he had left for several months, and as such did very little work. And around the argument had run, pointing out the flaws in his perfect plan the last few months, the coup, the war itself alone. Camilla had been quite insistent, but Marx was simply stubborn, refusing to budge, blaming himself for ignoring Nohr’s woes for a time.

That argument had run its course until Leon had stepped in, suggesting a third option, which he always seemed to find. Considering he had made himself sparse, Marx had to say that Leon forcing his way into a conversation was something he missed terribly.

“Flannel will stick out in the court terribly,” Camilla laughs, but there is no malice, just pure amusement at the prospect. Marx wished he was quick enough to sneak in a comment about what might give Flannel away, but just as Camilla finished brushing his hair, there was a knock.

Frowning, Marx looked over at the door. “Were you expecting someone?”

At the look of worry, Camilla reaching for the blade on the boudoir on instinct. Whilst there had been several threats since the arrival of the Hoshidan royalty, they had made it safely into the castle, royal guard at attention. Even those siblings of theirs that still lingered after the court affairs and the coup, who had sworn loyalty, had remained ever so quiet and obedient. Marx was prepared for some unfortunate sort of accident to befall him at some point in the day, but he would have preferred it not with Camilla in sight. 

Perhaps it was out of habit, to carry a dagger on his person, but he slips it up his sleeve, and goes to the door. Creaking it open just enough, Marx almost wished he had not opened the door at all. “Prince Ryouma,” he sighs, and pulls the door open further. “What a… _pleasant_ surprise.” 

To his credit, Ryouma seemed amused, and bowed his way in. Camilla appeared all at once, empty handed, as if there had been no threat at all. Pushing the little dagger further up his sleeve, Marx looked outside the room quickly, twice both ways, before closing the door. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“I came to wish you luck, and thanks for allowing us to accompany you through this day.”

Marx did not need to look over at Camilla to see how she seemed tuned to just how polite Ryouma was being. Whilst, perhaps, just how polite he could have been did not translate through the language they shared, there was no denying it. Even as Ryouma bowed low, once more, something was so stiff in the way he moved, that it was almost jarring, to how Marx truly perceived him.

Camilla touches his arm. “I will excuse myself for the moment. Rescue the maids from Elise and her demands. Or perhaps, Leon.” A laugh, slightly more forced than it had been earlier, but Marx smiled at the sentiment. Either of their younger siblings was likely giving those tasked with dressing them trouble. Considering too, Marx had outwardly acknowledged them after the war as his successors, would he fall, there was just that little more pampering.

“Go,” he says. “I will be down soon.”

Leaving, with a glance that flicks between Marx and Ryouma twice, Camilla finally shuts the door behind her. And with her goes all the air in the room, as Marx feels the shirt seem to constrain him that little further, each move slightly harder to perform. Brushing a hand against his cheek, Marx notes the growth of fine hair, spreading down to his jaw, and wonders if it were rude to ask Ryouma to leave while he attended to himself.

“Did you have something you would like to say, or would it be kinder to ask you to leave?”

There was that smile again, that held no particular meaning. Or it did, and Marx simply did not understand the depth behind it, not when he faced a man that could potentially ruin him. An irony that was not lost on him, when Marx had considered all those times when he had never fallen before Ryouma’s blade. But here they stood, and Marx hoped his knees did not shake. 

Falling into something unknown, and almost unheard of, yet seen again and again, was the most terrifying experience of Marx’s life. It sat right beside those moments of finding his father wandering the halls of Krakenstein, muttering to himself, and when he had made his first kill (a sibling, that he could never quite recall). Ryouma must not have understood just what type of power he held over Marx with each rise and fall of his chest.

“I had hoped to speak, before the ceremony.”

Marx went for the blade that had been placed on the boudoir as if it had never been moved, and rifled through whatever of his things had been brought into Camilla’s room for cream. Admittedly, it had been some time since he had even considered shaving himself, as once he had returned from his venture around Nohr, one of the first things that had been happened was him sat down and cleaned up. Staring into the mirror, Marx saw the bowl of water steaming the edges, and Ryouma looking back.

“Prince Ryouma…” A redundant line, one he had said over and over. Even the title was mismatched, something akin to a reminder of quiet times in the middle of a war. And yet, now it was loud and abrasive, as all he was surrounded by was silence. Marx’s voice does not hitch, does not waver, as Ryouma takes the blade from his hand.

His personal bubbles was sensitive at the best of times, but with this man it was so palpable he could nearly see him purposely poking at it with every movement. Truly, a curse upon Marx, to have his hand so easily bent, and for a weapon to be simply taken (a weapon? his mind asked, and he pushed that thought aside).

“Allow me.”

Ryouma leads him, an odd sensation. Marx sits, and is not sure where to watch as Ryouma wets a towel, sliding the material over Marx’s face, warmth only tampered by how cold the cream was. He is not allowed to rest, of course not, and it is the reminder of that sentence that makes him warm under Ryouma’s touch. If Ryouma had noticed, he does not comment, hand tipping Marx’s forehead back, and he works.

“I had not known you to be so skilled,” Marx murmurs, watching the slide of the blade as Ryouma wipes the cream on the towel.

“It was not until I had seen your men so adamant about keeping their faces clear that I had taken an interest.” 

Humming, Marx allows himself to close his eyes. Something about how the blade sliced and flicked was oddly soothing, a tinny sound in his ears. “Did you teach yourself?”

Laughing, Ryouma’s hands do not shake. “Not without failure. It was far harder than I had anticipated.”

With each slight touch, as Ryouma tilted his head this way and that, Marx wished sorely for some willpower to push the man away. Drawing on conversations, lies and whispers, Marx held out, reminding himself of how Ryouma had cast him aside. In favour of his sister, no less — a fact that gutted him more than the revelation he had intentions to marry. Breathing deeply, Marx concentrated on the overwhelming ache, forcing it to the forefront of his mind.

And yet, it would not stay, as Ryouma’s hair fell forward, tickling Marx’s cheek for a moment. An apology swiftly followed, but it was too late, as Marx opened his eyes.

When his eyes flicked up to meet Ryouma’s own, everything turns full technicolour. Ryouma’s eyes are reflective and bright, flicks of gold burning underneath such a rich brown, shining like they carried his own personal sun. Marx had only ever seen the sun in Hoshido, but looking up into that particular warmth once more, it was like he had never left that kind of bliss.

Their lips meet, and Marx does not think of the way Ryouma drops the blade, how there was still cream left on his face, or how his fingers wind into Ryouma’s hair despite the angle without any direction. Instinctive and hot, Marx does not think of how their teeth click and how the angle is unforgiving on his neck. Ryouma is warm and alive under his touch, murmuring his name between kisses, not taking the moments for breath as if his name might help him alone. A shot of pure thrill runs through him at the knowledge, and he is simply pulling Ryouma back once more.

They did not part, until Ryouma managed to get some of the cream in his mouth, and pulled back. Having not realised he had even closed his eyes, Marx wipes at his lips, staring up at nothing in particular, mouth drawn into a small ‘o’. And yet, his brain could not quite catch up, no dull reminders that this would never end well, no fear gripping at his stomach.

Marx felt something akin to peace, as Ryouma simply smiled down at him with such a casual ease, the corner of Marx’s mouth lifted in response. Was that something he had not realised he had needed, or was this betraying every natural instinct he had? Marx found he did not care to linger on that particular thought, as Ryouma bent to pick up the blade once more.

“Perhaps I should, uh, finish.” A slight cough, as he spreads some more cream along Marx’s skin without hesitation.

“Yes,” Marx only found himself responding, now acutely aware of Ryouma’s presence. How his fingertips pressed against his temple, how he whistled some tune under his breath. How no matter how many times he flicked his own hair back, it still managed to curl over his shoulder and brush Marx’s cheek.

“I missed you,” Marx murmurs. 

Ryouma does not miss a beat, swipe over the hair on Marx’s face smooth and unbroken. “And I you.”

Silence falls, as Ryouma finishes, warm towel wiping over Marx’s skin once more. Had he been any more romantic, Marx may have attached a sentiment to the motion, of how the towel passed over his lips more than necessary. But, he does not, and pushing the hair from his face, he stands once more. 

Marx had almost forgotten what it was like to be so clean-shaven, assessing his skin in the mirror. His hair comes down past his shoulders now, not as tightly spun as Elise’s curls, but in simple waves. Ryouma watches him through the mirror, hands hidden inside his sleeves, and Marx is not sure where to press, what to do from here.

All at once, that simpleness he felt seemed to be sucked out of the room, as Ryouma’s gaze turned heavy. Perhaps there should have been boundaries in the way, to stop him from reaching out to Ryouma once more. Marx knew that, even if Ryouma moulded to his touch, pushing him back against the boudoir, this was wrong. There was nothing for them, and in only a few hours, Marx’s life would be set in stone.

“You should leave,” he murmurs, as Ryouma kisses him with such an intent that is absolutely drowning. 

“Why?” Ryouma questions, Marx’s name on his tongue, no titles, no honourifics. He slips into Hoshidan, for only a moment, and the words are lost on Marx, but his breath hitches. “Tell me why, Marx, and I will leave.”

“Coronation.” A mumble against lips, as he remembers Camilla waiting downstairs. Likely accompanied by Hinoka, and perhaps Belka and Flannel. An entire company was waiting downstairs to begin the coronation, and Marx did not find the strength to remove his grip from Ryouma’s waist.

Grunting, Ryouma presses firmed, his dress sliding open with each movement. Marx presses a palm flat against his chest, and pushes back. “Prince Ryouma, I insist.” His voice hitches, as Ryouma curls his fingers around his wrist, but there is no aggression.

Just a sad sort of look on his face, as he leans back. “So, we are princes once more?”

“Soon to be kings.”

Marx stares down at just how dishevelled they looked, and attempts to tuck his shirt back into his pants, when Ryouma responds. “I have already been crowned, Prince Marx. You are the one who is only catching up now.”

Snapping his head up, almost too fast that the world spins, Marx sees the pain there. “You…”

The headache he had felt before came rushing back, as he pushed past Ryouma. What was it like? he wanted to ask, to commit yourself so wholly. There were more things, far more scathing, jealousy for a simple life, whose wound cracked and snapped open, great green vines wrapping at his throat. Marx would not speak, as he opened the door to the room, intent on the next step. What was the next step?

“Prince Marx! Please, wait!”

Ryouma’s grip sears his skin, and Marx yanks himself free. There were no servants to see him in such a state. Over Ryouma’s shoulder, Marx can see just how wild-eyed he truly looked, and was not sure how to smother the look down this time. 

Maybe, it works anyway. “Please, Marx. Do not shut me out. _Please_.”

Marx does not hear the plea. Or he does, and does not respond. It was like he was not controlling himself once more, automatic and unfeeling as he reaches the base of the stairs, and turns left. Into another room, where Camilla sits with Hinoka, as Marx had thought. Flannel was there, alongside Leon. Taking a deep breath, he knocks, attracting their attention. 

If Ryouma followed closely, Marx does not comment, only steps into the room, as if it may have been the safest place in the entire castle. “Is the priest here?” His voice catches on the third note, something that he sees Leon’s gaze shift at. 

Would Leon judge him, if he knew? The thought crippled him, significantly, in one swift blow. Shoulders dropping, Marx walks the rest of the way in, as Camilla presents his diadem. 

It was almost unrecognisable, had it not been how the curve had been saved. Marx is not sure if he was supposed to take it in his hands straight away, almost afraid to touch, as it was so unlike the one his father had ever worn, and yet still entirely his own. Camilla had not lied, when she said she would keep the circlet as a reminder of what he was. Now, in front of him, sat such a step forward, Marx was unsure if he wanted to take it. 

Ryouma does the unthinkable, pushing past and into the room, that brashness in his step that make Marx grow fond. He takes Marx’s diadem, large hands somehow smothering the shine, turning it over to assess the jewel sitting at the forefront. Leon says something, but it is lost on Marx, as Ryouma steps up to him. Gently, Ryouma pushes Marx’s hair back, and slides the diadem on. It is far weigher than his circlet had ever been, but Marx does not feel it on his own, as Ryouma’s hands held the diadem for just a moment longer than necessary.

Then, that was gone too, hands retracting to let Marx adjust. It was heavy and solid, no longer metal tampered into a curve that he had once been told meant something about how Garon felt for his mother and himself. It was as if Nohr was sitting on his brow, and it was his own purpose to carry the country onward.

Camilla takes the diadem back, after laughing off a ‘making sure it fits’, in a way of explanation with a scathing look sent Leon’s way. Ryouma agrees, although he is no longer looking at Marx, just at how the diadem was taken away, passed off to a servant to be cleaned one last time. 

“Let us begin,” Marx says, finally, calling his voice. Forcing himself to not waver, to not break. Ryouma’s eyes do not land on him, and Marx does not wish for them to. Through the backrooms they walk, gradually disappearing one by one.

The Hoshidans leave them, Hinoka citing having to find Takumi and Sakura. Perhaps she had noticed the tension, in how Camilla was the one to speak for Marx, how Leon had pointed out where they may have potentially wandered off to. “There is an escort waiting for you to take you to the town square,” Camilla reminds them, as they walk off with a wave.

Marx is still not used to how people emerge from the shadows, as two more bodies appear behind the prince — no, _king_ — of Hoshido, and the eldest princess. Were they following the whole time? Marx does not give himself time to linger on that thought, as boundless energy crashes into him.

“Elise,” he sighs, hands flying to her shoulders automatically, always. Her hair was down, ringlets hanging loose down her back, those streaks of colour now fresh and newly woven through. “You look beautiful.”

Elise beams, and fusses over how one side of Leon’s collar had flipped up, while Camilla smooths the front of Marx’s shirt. “Where is your coat?” she asks, quietly, when Elise begins pressing Leon for answers about someone. 

Closing his eyes, Marx knew exactly where it was. “I left it in your room. Apologies, I will go—”

“Do not be ridiculous. Belka, a favour.”

At her elbow, Belka appears, with a small nod of indication she knew what Camilla was requesting, and then she was gone once more. No, Marx would certainly never get used to how people appeared and disappeared at will. Perhaps that was why Pieri and Lazwald had been such an asset, as he could hear their approach from several feet away. And perhaps, why he enjoyed Ryouma’s presence, especially on the battlefield. Had it not been the crackling of lightning bound so tightly to his sword, Ryouma’s voice just boomed like roaring thunder.

Pursing his lips, Marx willed those thoughts away. He knew he should not have these thoughts, what he craved could not possibly happened, and yet whenever he closed is his eyes, Marx’s mind would not listen. “Camilla,” he prompts, voice tight and low. “Have I gone mad?”

Camilla has a critical eye, and Marx knew she had picked up on the cues, the little signs. But not once had she ever shamed him, for overstepping some boundaries he knew he should have kept in place. “Marx,” her tone is soft and comforting, “not once have I thought you were doing the wrong thing.”

A comfort, to hear those words. Marx had not realised how much weight was lifted. Rushing back into his ears was the arrival of a guard, through the main hall. Camilla smooths the front of her dress once more, and accepts the coat. Adjusting Marx’s cravat, while Harold assists with the coat, Marx does not think about Ryouma, or Camilla, Leon or Elise or the crowd, no doubt, waiting outside. Marx does not consider the serious number of safety threats, performing the coronation amongst the people of Vindam.

Marx repeats his lines over in his head, and simply marches forward. The entire company follows, a gradual increase in people that is slow and deliberate. He knew, that with each step, as another person, be it someone clambering to claim family, or another soldier, where they stood meant just where their favour stood. Careful not to let his face betray him, as he thought about what his first act as King may be, he does not spare a look over his shoulder to know what it just might have been.

“Leon,” he says quietly, as they begin the descent down the long road to the town square.

Even Marx could see just how taken aback Leon was at being addressed so directly. “Yes, brother?” 

“Stay by my side. Oversee my judgements, and do not let me fall.”

Leon does not respond, but Marx sees how he bites his lip out the corner of his eye. Now, he may realise just how Marx appreciated his work. How Marx was intent on filling his position and role, as he should have been so intent on from the very first day. 

Ahead, the priests stand upon the podium that had been constructed just for today. Rarely, they left the temples far to the east, high up in the mountains. Their regalia, detailed to depict the roaring of dragons, was a sight to behold. Marx had never thought he would see them in his lifetime.

Stepping up to the podium, Marx bows low. They wait for the Nohrian company to settle, crowd tense and quiet. Eyes sweeping the crowd, Marx catches Ryouma’s gaze, and holds. A sight for the Hoshidans, he knew. It may have settled just how savage they could have been in their minds, with their High Priests hiding their faces, spinning chants. But, there is no judgment in Ryouma’s eyes, just wonder.

“Hear our prayer, Lord, and those of your servant…”

Their voices hum as they speak, and Marx bends a knee as they begin. Whilst the dusk dragon may not have been anymore, it was as if the priests summoned his presence, brought him back to life. For a moment, Marx’s mind betrayed him, telling him to tell the priests he had slain their precious god.

“Look, Almighty God, with a serene gaze on this, your glorious servant…”

Looking up, only once, Marx wills himself not to close his eyes as the diadem is slipped onto his head once more. “Through whom honour and glory are yours through infinite ages of ages.” As the hands release the diadem upon his head, Marx stands. “Amen.”

A sword was placed in his hands, simple and yet so beautifully crafted. Marx did not linger on who had it crafted, as he waited for the last blessings, a last promise to protect Nohr with this sword, his hand and crown. At the clap of hands, a closure of prayer, Marx turns back to the crowd, brow heavy, sweat beading along the back of his neck.

And slowly, he raised his sword, as a slow and thunderous applause broke through the people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [screaming]
> 
> notes are: [here](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/144901177335/)


	7. Still waters

Marx had not seen the grand hall of Castle Krakenstein serve a purpose other than the occasional disciplinary action in a long time. If he were being absolutely truthful, Marx did not remember the last time he had seen the doors thrown open, as they had torn where the throne sat and moved it to the higher levels years before he had been born. Apparently, the servants whispered the room to be haunted, but that was said about every room in the castle that it meant nothing.

Even if there were whispers in the walls and various floating vases, none of it mattered as he sat at the centre of the table, watching skirts whirl around, a sight to behold. He almost wished he had been sitting above the room, as he could imagine how it would look higher, like a great flower, slowly blooming. The Nohrian rose, maybe, he entertained, as the music seemed to reach a faster pace, and there was another dip. Someone’s pearls broke, another man’s mask slipped, and then they were off again.

A Great Game, and Marx’s right hand twitched around Camilla’s. It had been so long since he had played at the court, not since he had slain a number of his siblings in the one night. Only a few rooms higher, that had happened, and it had been years since he had stopped imagining the blood running between the rock, but as he watched the fixed smiles on the Nohrian nobility, the memory edged at the back of his mind.

Camilla pats his hand absentmindedly, and passes a glass of wine over her shoulder to Belka. “Now, now, Marx,” she says, lightly, teasingly. “No need to panic.”

Belka hands the wine back, and Camilla takes a sip. So easy, and Marx can feel himself relax, just enough. Not that Camilla likely thought he was in the wrong, being so wary. Since the coronation, a number of siblings that had escaped in the fiasco of the coup — and maybe even before that, when child was pitted against child — had come forward. Pledging loyalty, and to never stray from such a path again. Some had even dared to ask for returned titles, a place to live in the castle once more. Had the ball not been pulled so early, Marx was to have dealt with the issue.

And he knew how he would deal with it, as he was sure Camilla and Leon would agree. Elise was kept out of the matter altogether, as her sudden interest in etiquette had drawn her away for the most part. Marx was still not sure what to make of that, but left it alone. Another day, he told himself, he would approach her. After all, they had not spoken much since the return from Hoshido.

At that thought, Marx let his eyes slide down the table, to where the honoured guests sat. Hoshidan garb had earned a number of whispers, and even hours into the event, many guests still sent the royal family stares. Not that it seemed to irk them, as Ryouma chatted to some woman beside him, and Hinoka sat with a pointed look at whatever was on her plate. Marx had noticed that the younger siblings had all wandered off at some point, but did not mind. It was better for them to get along, and he had no doubt that Elise would make sure of it.

“Camilla,” he begins, slowly, as he watches the dance begin to lull, a slower, familiar song coming from the piano. “May I have this dance?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

Taking her hand, if she wanted to comment on the way his little finger began to jump violently, she only held him harder. Raising their hands as they made their way to the centre, Marx did not care for the clap that begun, only smiles visible behind those masks as he swung Camilla around. Hand at her waist, Marx waited for the count in, and began. 

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, as they step twice, and then once. Stop. To the left three times then back again. 

Camilla’s skirts swung around them, catching at his leg. “As do you, my lord brother.” Not a piece of hair came loose from how intricately it had been woven, as they fell into step with the crowd eventually, as everyone returned to the floor. Whatever little things Camilla had worked into the night, Marx had only known of a few, such as the jacket he wore of Hoshidan make, and the many decorative pieces in Camilla’s hair. 

Corners of his mouth turning upwards, Marx spun Camilla in time with the music, catching her once more at the right pause. “I am surprised that Flannel did not join us.” Marx noted the twitch in her eyebrow at that, and how, for one moment, whatever hair that had been purposely drawn alongside the left eye shifted. That horrible, horrible scar.

Camilla’s words are careful. “He is not fond of crowds.” A game they played. Marx let his gaze wander at the pause, as he brushed over the room. People, backstabbers and liars. An unfortunately comfortable crowd. 

“A shame. This music would have been to his liking.”

The catch in the music has them pause, as Marx dips Camilla low. Whilst her left side may have been rendered useless by ventures she had never spoken of, Camilla turned her head just enough. “Flannel has never been fond of the song and dance that we all play along to.”

“An unfortunate song we learn so well.”

As the song finally ends, and straightening Camilla, they join in the crowd with clapping. Marx does not force the smile, as they move from the centre, to a side more comfortable. He grasps hands with many a man, and kisses the hands of ladies he never knew. Camilla does not leave his side, as she does the exact same, offering words that are so well rehearsed, Marx was sure that even in their sleep they would be able to repeat perfectly. A game so embedded in them, even their time away in during the war had not meant they could forget.

“I need some air,” he finally says, leaning close to Camilla, as if going to tell a joke. She laughs, just like he thought she would, and waves him off. Bowing his way out, Marx did not pull at the collar of his shirt until he was safely outside. Popping the top button, Marx is thankfully ignored by those who had also come to linger outside. Cravat loosened, Marx rests his hands on the balustrade, and sighs.

Whilst below sat the reservoir that the castle relied on, something that had always remained a cracked and open wound upon his life, Marx had to appreciate looking up. So low down, it still had him wonder why they insisted on moving the throne room higher, as from this far away from the surface, it was truly a marvel to see the castle in all its glory. For a night, the entire area was lit up, each level decorated with torches, and silks hung with the emblem shown in full glory. All the way up, a gentle orange glow surrounded the castle, and Marx did not care that a tiny bit of hope wormed its way in. This is what he wanted to show to the world, what Nohr could be. Staring up, and seeing such a warmth rail towards the sky, it assured him he was on the right path. 

Marx may not have been an especially religious man, but he would not deny something spiritual and comforting when he was surrounded. 

“Oh, K-King Marx, I apologise, I did not see you there…”

Marx did not linger on how he should have expected being interrupted, but he quickly tightens his cravat, and turns. Maybe his face betrays his surprise, at how the younger prince of Hoshido quickly sends his gaze to the floor. “Prince Takumi. A pleasant surprise.” Greeting him simply, he was not sure as to why he was being approached, after having watched the younger ones make themselves scarce once dinner was over. Especially so, as Marx had noticed the mild horror on Takumi’s face, as Elise’s food had been eaten by a servant first.

Takumi may have dropped his gaze, only returning it once upon hearing his name. Leon’s name jumped to the forefront of Marx’s mind as just how familiar the actions were, the avoidance, the way Takumi finally seemed to settle on whatever it was he wanted, and looked up. A certain determination sat on his face, setting it into a perpetual frown, and Marx was reminded of Ryouma.

“Would you allow me to return to Nohr in the future?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Colour fills Takumi’s cheeks, but he does not seem at all deterred. “I wish to serve as an ambassador for Hoshido, and to assist in maintaining the peace between our countries.”

Eyebrows raising, Marx had not considered such a thing. Not yet, anyway. There was still much to be done in Nohr before they could welcome any sort of outward help, especially from Hoshido. Marx had an inkling that Hoshido was much the same. They were both proud people, and even with the peace they had drawn together since the end of the war, people still rallied against the laws, and disregarded the treaty. In a fortnight, he was to venture to Dia, and ask them to open their docks for trade once more. 

“Is this something you desire personally, or something that has been forced upon you?” A trying question, no doubt, but Marx did not think it was wholly the boy’s decision. From what he had seen of Takumi during the war, he had taken time far longer to adjust to the Nohrian presence than that of Ryouma or Hinoka, or even Sakura. Leon and him had found old friends in each other, within weeks of meeting, which seemed to lessen his anger. But it was still evident, and the way he had visibly flinched when being approached by those of the Nohrian camp had not lessened just yet.

“My own choice.” Takumi’s voice does not waver as he responds, and he draws himself to his full height.

“Then, why do you ask what I think?”

Finally, he pauses, as if unsure where to go. Did he not expect a question like this, or had he planned out responses prior? Did Marx not follow a certain way? Leon had mentioned something about _shogi_ , a game with just as much tactical genius, if not more, than chess, and Marx had to wonder just how far ahead Takumi had thought how to proceed with this line of questioning. With a certain amount of humour, Marx realised being stumbled upon had likely thrown a plan out the window for Takumi. 

“If I were to suddenly arrive on Nohrian shores, unannounced, it would surely stir trouble for you.”

“Having ambassadors will be something Nohr and Hoshido will discuss in future meetings, of course. Such an intent now would be viewed as being ambitious.”

“There is no ill will behind this request.”

“But you would like my support, should other names be put forward for the position?”

Gauging Takumi’s reaction, Marx was sure he had reached a certain end. Of course, his support in talks would be worth more than enough to garner any position desired. And yet, Marx was sure that this was not the true intent behind the young prince’s request. Apart from likely seeing Leon regularly, he would be away from the Hoshidan capital more often that not. There was nothing truly holding him to Nohr, and he could always run the risk of being outed in the court as a spy, no matter how they dressed his position up. A prince of Hoshido being accused of espionage would ruin their peace. 

“Why have you not spoken to King Ryouma of this?” Marx finally asks, as he clasps his hands behind his back. The twitch had returned, but thankfully Takumi had not noticed, it seemed. 

Takumi does not respond, as if the mere mention of his brother’s name had caught his tongue. A sour look passes over his face, and he struggles to form words. Marx does not understand the reaction, why Takumi looked so frightened by such a possibility, as in his interactions with Ryouma, he had never once thought the man to be so terrifying. But Takumi seemed to shrink under that name alone, and that simple action spoke more than any words may have.

“Do not force yourself to respond, Prince Takumi. I only wish for a proper reason at some other time. I fear I have to return to the ball, lest my sister find me hiding.”

“You hide?” There is nothing to cover the sudden burst, as Takumi seemed to realise he had spoken out of line.

Smiling, Marx nods his head. “When I was younger, I used to stand by the wall, and simply watch. More often than not, my mother caught me in the servants’ quarters.”

Marx was not sure what possessed him to speak so casually about his mother, and blamed the night. But it was refreshing, and Takumi seemed to visibly relax, as if they had found a point they related to on. There was a niggling question, if the younger brother was aware that at one point Marx had spent several summers together with Ryouma, when their fathers were just barely friends. After all, it was not just his mother who had dragged him out of hiding.

“What made you hide?” Takumi had taken a step forward, as if there was some promise in Marx’s words that Marx would not understand. But he did not ignore the question.

“To put it simply: fear.” And finally, he strides past. Marx was sure, had they sat, they may have been able to talk freely, as he wanted himself to be able to speak about such things. Had it not been for Leon lurking on the eastern end of the balustrade, Sakura in tow, Marx may have done so just then.

Nodding at Leon, Marx fixes his buttons, checks his cravat, and immerses himself in the crowd once more. All in step, as he catches the attention of some ladies, ones who did not seem the type to have associated themselves with his father. But he would never know, as they wore those heavy golden masks, and tittered with a hand placed on his arm, a smile that said many other things. 

They say things to him, subtle suggestions about finding somewhere quiet to talk, about what he might do next. Things Marx had not encountered since his coming of age, when one woman had locked them in a room, all for the sole purpose of having him. Marx was not daft, but there was no hope in him that these women would be different. When he looks up, as if to check, to see if Camilla was lingering, Marx almost understood why his father had insisted on marrying Elise’s mother, of all the women in his court — to stop such ridiculous attentions.

“Marx!”

Gods, Marx was sure he looked beside himself as Elise pushed her way through, smiling and curtseying, yet grabbing him by the hand and pulling him out. There were some whines, calls about promising to speak to him later, but Marx paid no heed, as Elise slipped her hand from his wrist to his hand, and threaded their fingers together. “Leon has been looking for you,” she says, finally, as he is lead back towards the table.

“I saw him just before, but we did not speak.” Not that he would say, but Leon did not look like he wished to speak. Marx made a small note, that he would speak to his brother in the morning, if only because Elise was so insistent that something was urgent. “Are you to join me, Elise?”

Marx took the seat, noted Camilla’s dire absence, and how Ryouma now sat, talking to official men who had joined from his own company. Elise shakes her head, and her smile strains around the edges. If Marx were to guess, the entertaining of vipers in their home was starting to weigh on her too. But that was only a guess, of course, and Elise’s smile wavered when Marx continued to stare. “Is there something on my face?” she asks, a hand going to her cheek. 

Far too mature, far from the girl who had run headfirst into battle after her older siblings without a care for herself. Or, Marx knows, maybe he had never known her at all. The thought is entertained, when he presses a light kiss to her knuckles, and Elise’s reaction is a smile unlike the one she always threw, something deep and quiet. Foreign. “I know that you wish to return to Hoshido,” he murmurs, releasing her. Of course he had known, from just how furiously she had been studying. If Elise thought she was subtle in hiding her lessons involving Hoshido, she would be sorely disappointed.

Elise jolts, a protest all at once, and Marx simply holds up his hand. “We will discuss matters later. Tomorrow, I am sure that we will hear nothing than ridiculous court drivel from whatever lords and ladies linger.”

Watching the colour rise in her cheeks, Marx nods in the direction of Takumi and Leon who had reentered the room, Sakura trailing behind them. “I would like to hear, of course, how the princesses of two royal families dragged the princes into a dance.”

A dismissal, that Elise seemed to be thankful for. Marx was not sure just how much more he would be pulled into, as Elise quickly walked away, only to slide up to Sakura and no doubt whisper something terribly nefarious in her ear. He would hear all about it in the morning, as Elise bowed low to Takumi, and Sakura just as deeply to Leon. Light laughter, varying from outright humour to something darker, filled the table, as everyone turned to watch the youngest members of the royal families try to dance. 

Marx does not linger on the thought that he should have organised some dance lessons for the Hoshidans present, as a shadow blocks out what minimal light was being cast. “Third time is the charm, they say,” he comments, and he shifts his weight right, to watch Ryouma seat to his left.

“That is the saying. Or so I hear.” Ryouma seemed to have been in good spirits, and had taken to Nohrian wine quite well. Marx raised his brows at the colouring of Ryouma’s cheeks, but said nothing more.

Elise swings Takumi around, and Marx has to sigh. She was likely to cause a fiasco between countries with how much vigour she was showing. At least Leon seemed to retain something from his lessons as a child, and seemed to be discussing with Sakura various things, all the while moving very little. They simply swayed back and forth, and then Marx finally saw just what shoes Sakura was wearing, and understood. 

Motioning to a servant lingering, Marx watches them pour the wine, and catches Ryouma staring. A sniff, and a wave of magic, before it is handed over to him. Carefully, Marx takes a sip, only being his third lot of the night, and he did not want to tempt fate. A realistic part of himself knew that poison was not the Nohrian family’s traditional method of murder, but those masks that danced in front of him, around his siblings, meant anything was possible.

“Do you not trust your countrymen for one night, King Marx?”

Marx does not allow his nose to turn at the taste of the wine (he would never get used to it), and simply cast a look over at Ryouma. “One night would be all it could take, King Ryouma, for even the most incompetent man to use something as simple as a _spoon_ for murder.”

“Your trust in those around you always manages to astound me.”

“A gripe at my character will not endear your country to mine.”

“And yet, King Marx, it endears you to me.”

There is no choking on wine, or the rising temptation to throw said wine over the front of Ryouma’s clothes, a simple accident that could be passed for a hand sweeping in the middle of a story. There is nothing out of the ordinary, save for the absolute intense rage that Marx sends Ryouma’s way. “There are places and times, and this is _not_ one of them.” He cannot keep the hiss out of his voice for the life of him.

Ryouma remains unflappable by the display, and sets to lean back in his chair, far too casual for the snakes that practically crawled up the walls. “I tire of you running away. What a better time when you are forced into an attendance that will only end when the last man leaves. Or perhaps, _lady_ , from how such women seemed to throw themselves at your feet.”

It takes him only a moment, but Marx cannot hide the smile in his voice as he processes what Ryouma had just said. “Jealousy is not very becoming of you.”

A snort. “Lesser men would be jealous.”

“Greater men would admit to such depths of jealousy.” A stab at Ryouma’s character, that has his face turn sour.

“Should a man admit to his jealousy, what would it change? Would such a gaze be turned back, if he were to say he was wrong.”

Mind speeding to catch up, Marx was trying to piece together times, places. Where had they been? What had been said? Hoshido in the spring, when Marx had worn a _yukata_ for the first time, and Ryouma had only allowed it on his skin for a moment longer. Before that, during the war. Moments of weakness and wine, lost to old myths that his mother had once spun, long before that. Marx sipped idly at his wine, and cast a sidelong glance at Ryouma, who seemed to be immensely fascinated in the next dance.

Taking a deep breath, Marx knew the next sentence would tip the scales in such a way he was not sure if there would be a way back. And it deeply terrified him, but at the same time, he found he was not worried at all. “Depends on the admission, and where the fault may have truly lied all along.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the band in the background, drowning out even the titters of those nobles who danced around in their ridiculous dress. Watching Ryouma's face carefully, Marx felt the fear creep up his throat, readying him to pull his words back. There was no emotion, just a cool calculation in his eye, as he simply stared. But then, Ryouma’s mouth turns upwards, a slight crack of a smile, that Marx admitted he had missed tragically. “And, perhaps, say both parties were in the wrong. What then?”

What then, indeed. A sigh leaves him as Marx turns back. Through the crowd, he watched Elise, ambitious and proud, swing a fearful Takumi around once more. He had no doubt she would return to Hoshido. What was there for her, he could not say, and it pained him to consider letting her go. But she smiled over at Leon, who did not let Sakura fall, and thought it may have been for the best. There was no home for her here, not with how blood still stained the stone under their feet, and how it would take years for even the smell to leave his clothes.

And what did Leon want? his mind asked, as he caught the fear beginning to slip, as Camilla joined the throng. Hinoka at her side, a hand curled around Camilla’s elbow, holding on tight as they stood and talked. What did Camilla want? Did he ask for too much sacrifice, for his own selfish needs? Asking his family to leave behind their own personal needs for the sake of his own indecisiveness and worries was not possible, not anymore. Marx knew such a thing to be true, and found he could not deny them anymore.

Camilla’s words echoed back, and Marx finally caught Ryouma’s gaze. “They could move forward as one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont get me wrong when i think that the ideal castle really is krakenstein, but its so fkn hard to work out I'm just giving up
> 
> s/o to my other fics hylas and heart of snow white lol. i mean its not necessary to read them at all but marx's ~moment of weakness~ and camilla's scarring are there.
> 
> notes are, again: [here](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/144901388760/)
> 
> EDIT 22/5/16: changed the last part of the fic because I wasn't happy with it.


	8. Who needs rescuing?

“I had not anticipated to be taken so far out of the city, King Marx.”

A snort, that Marx just barely passed off as coming from his horse, was Ryouma’s response. Rolling his shoulders, Marx eased the horse to a trot, before coming to a complete stop altogether. Several paces behind, Leon and Takumi also stopped; although when looked over at, Leon did not quite meet Marx’s eye.

“Traditionally, the king would not leave the city walls during the celebrations.” It was Leon who finally spoke up, bypassing Marx’s raised brows to look over at Ryouma directly. “It had also been tradition to hold a weeklong celebration for the coronation of a new king.”

“‘Had’?” Takumi apparently taking it upon himself to speak this time, and Marx did not miss the way he sent him a look first. Perhaps he still remembered the previous night’s conversation, and interpreted it as something else other than what Marx meant. If Marx were being truthful, he was beginning to get used to the misinterpretation of his words. 

“There is too much work to do to simply indulge the nobility and their _parties_ , as I am sure you would agree, Leon.” There was no room for argument, as Marx turned to him pointedly. Whilst he had wanted to find time to sit and talk, to find a common ground between him and his brother that did not involve swords and magic and the impending doom of a war, Leon had been avoiding him. If he was not run into several excuses about having things to do or places to be, Marx found himself met with the cold shoulder he had begun to name Zero. 

“Of course, brother. How could I ever disagree?”

Marx does not rise to the challenge that Leon presents, finally looking at him. Why was he so angry? Marx had pressed Camilla for answers, but found none. Leon had not been speaking to Camilla either, not since the birth of Velour, at the least. That itself Marx did not understand, and he did not want to drag Elise into something that could hurt her. Despite suspecting that Leon had spoken with Elise, with just how often he had seen them together in the last few days, Marx had kept himself and his questions at bay. And he could do it again now.

“Shall we keep moving?”

Ryouma nods, and Marx ignores how he continues to turn back. He should have expected something like this, and did not appreciate how the mood had significantly dropped. Whilst a venture outside the capital walls was stepping on every toe that tradition held, there had never been an appropriate time to show Nohr to Ryouma. At least closer to the capital, there was still some greenery, and the trees did not look as broken as the rest of the land. Even the rain had lightened to a drizzle, as if Marx was supposed to take advantage of the day. Leon had only joined because Camilla had told him to, and had practically thrown the boy on a horse. 

“There is a town not too far from here. You may have passed it on your way to the capital.”

A hum, and Ryouma looks over at him. “We did not linger. It was empty when we passed through.”

“Empty…?” Turning on his horse, Marx looks back at Leon. Whatever animosity was between them died down significantly at the revelation. The town outside the capital was where a number of their soldiers trained, alongside the cavalry. Town was a smaller name for how large of an area that was encompassed by the Nohrian army, but it had only been since the end of the war that it had been used in such a way. “That cannot be.”

“Marx, perhaps we should return later,” Leon finally speaks, pulling his horse ahead to stop Marx. “If there has been a problem, we should bring men.”

“Of course.” In one movement, Marx nudges his horse around. Maybe it was meant to be, as very few of his plans had moved accordingly lately. Feeling no disappointment, as Marx was thankful for the slight distraction from the preparations for later that night, he was not prepared for what happened next.

Ryouma, who had watched the exchange, simply clicked his tongue. And then dug his heels into his horses’s flank, spurring the animal forward. Voices clamber over each other, as Marx shouts as Takumi does. Leon is the only one who follows, and Marx follows with Takumi at his heel. Of course Ryouma would run off — Marx should have known something like this would have happened. Deep down, he should have known. “Damn him,” he hisses under his breath, and shouts once more for his horse to catch up. 

“Leon! Stop him!”

Barely, Marx catches the backwards glance. Just barely, there is some sort of level of obedience still in there, as if they were younger, and had not stepped into the cusp of war, disobeying their father. Leon shows no signs of conflict, as he turns to face forward. There was no surge of magic, and his hand does not stray to where Brynhildr was strapped to his side. Instead, he simply lowers himself further, and speeds up. 

“King Marx, we will not reach them at this rate!”

Marx knew that Takumi was right, and yet he watched Leon and Ryouma disappear over the hill with nothing but sheer frustration. Had he still had Bucephalas, Marx was sure he may have caught up to them. He had not taken it upon himself to gain another horse of the same stature, same power of Bucephalas. That horse he had even given part of himself, imbuing the beast with magic. 

Takumi draws up beside him, and Marx does not bother to hide his displeasure at the situation. “They should not have ridden off like that.”

“Considering Leon was also the one to suggest returning with men.” Takumi snorts at that, and rests a hand on his hip. “I almost feel like I should have expected this.”

“I should have known King Ryouma would not turn down a challenge, but Leon following him is—”

“You really do not know your own brother, do you, King Marx?”

“Beg your pardon?”

Colour fills Takumi, and he averts his gaze, his interruption catching up with him. Whilst there may have been no lie in his words, just from how Takumi spoke, not quite ridiculing, but a close enough tone, was enough to have Marx straighten himself in his saddle. 

“I-I misspoke. Apologies.”

Whatever camaraderie that was there from the night before dissipated in an instant, and Marx did not linger on that thought. Perhaps it would keep Takumi out of Nohr, with how he continued to speak up. It would only be a matter of time until such a trait caught up with him. Gritting his teeth, Marx knew he was thinking childishly, yet could not help but appreciate how Leon at least had some sense of conversation and flow. Perhaps it was how they had been raised, picking words carefully. Whatever sort of place Takumi had been raised, it was not welcomed in Marx’s court.

Do not think like that, he tells himself, as they push on. Just over the hill, downwards towards the town. There was no need for comments like that, coming together after a war. Biting on the inside of his mouth to stop himself from thinking further, Marx did not appreciate the crushing sense that he had not changed from nearly two decades prior, and still had those thoughts in the back of his head that whispered horrible things about Hoshidans.

“There they are!”

Marx did not lead the forward charge, and Takumi raced on ahead. Something could be said, in that moment, but Marx did not linger on the thought. No, did not _allow_ himself to linger on, as it spoke in the back of his mind. So much to be said in that one moment, boiling over through months of pushing it down. Blaming a lack of sleep, and a sheer irritation at Leon’s ignoring of him, Marx just barely tackled down the urge to comment on Hoshidans and their speed. He was better than this, he was normally above such things.

Then again, he did not remember much of the conversation from last night, and how Ryouma had looked rather unimpressed in the morning was still weighing in the back of his mind. Marx had realised, hours earlier, he was not capable of handling these sorts of situations once more, and had thought, yet again, that Leon would have been far more suited for the position of King. 

“You should have waited.”

“If we had waited, we may have been too late.”

Raising his brows at the response, Marx holds his tongue as Ryouma looks up at him. Not knowing what to make of the look he received, he dismounts, holding the reins in his hand as he brushes past. Again, whatever plan he had was significantly trampled on, and this time, it was his own fault for ruining whatever tenuous bridging he and Ryouma had founded. Gods, he could not remember what he had said the previous night, to have Ryouma view him so coldly. And Marx was the one who was told he was not forthright enough with his emotions.

As Marx rounds the corner, several words ready to be thrown towards Leon, he stops short. “What…?”

It was the stench that hit him first. A familiar smell, associated with watching a sibling being branded and thrown from the castle at the age of seventeen. Burnt skin, acrid and rotten, curling into every part of his senses, stinging his eyes. Marx should not have been able to discern that it was only a fresh kill, and it was not something he was ready to admit. But he hears the crunching of gravel behind him, and turns, ready to throw out an arm to stop whoever wanted to get closer.

Marx was not sure he was ready for anymore surprises, when he does not grab his sword fast enough. Instead, he catches the person falling towards him, and was thankful he came out in full armament for that day. 

“Be careful with her!”

Head snapping up, Marx watches Leon approach, far too flustered for something as simple as an unfortunate commoner in the wrong place at the wrong time. Looking down at where his hands rested on the person’s shoulders, it takes a moment for him to place a name to the face, and had it not been for the marks burned into her forehead, he would not have guessed. 

He is not quick enough to speak, as Leon pulls Nyx free from his hands. Leon was not nearly as gentle as he may have wanted to be, and Marx watches his shoulders shake as he slings an arm under her legs, lifting her up. Yet Marx knew it was not from a lack of strength that he shook from, but that was a sign of fear. Narrowing his eyes, he pressed forward. “I have many questions for you.”

Leon turns, and Nyx’s head lolls back in his hold. Her chest just manages to rise and fall with breath, but she was holding on through whatever sheer force. “Now is not the time.”

They had an audience, even if Ryouma had busied himself to draw closer to whatever remains were behind Marx, and Takumi had disappeared into the house that Nyx had emerged from. “As your _king_ , I demand it.”

A line. Marx had crossed a line. A line so thin he could barely see it, but as Leon turned around, boots scraping the rocks under their feet, he could hear it snap. “Of course, _my king_ , ask and I shall answer to the best of my abilities.”

Not questioning the venom in Leon’s voice, as Marx knows he deserves it. “Did you know she would be here?”

“I had heard rumours, yes.” 

“And yet, you knew.”

It is the look that passes over Leon’s face that says it all, accompanied by digging his gauntlets into where he held Nyx. Turning his head back to where the bodies continued to burn, Marx had many things he could make of the situation. Nyx was quite forthcoming with her origins, and had turned down his offer of being the court mage. She had claimed she sought atonement. This was not it.

“If you return to the castle with her, she is to be thrown in a cell until she awakens for questioning.”

“Wait, brother, she did not do this—” Leon begins to protest in an instant, but Marx continues talking over him, does not let his words go unheard.

“If you do not return with her, you will be hunted down for questioning as well.”

“King Marx, you cannot suggest—”

A hand lays on his breast plate, a push back from completely crumbling whatever relationship they held. It takes Marx a moment long than it should have to turn his attention from Leon, fierce Leon who in that moment looked at him with such a hatred Marx had never seen before, to Ryouma. Why Ryouma was looking at him that way, he could not tell either. “For now we should return to the castle, King Marx, and have the lady tell us what happened when she comes to. It is too dangerous to linger here any longer, I fear.”

For one entire moment, Marx levelled a stare to meet Leon’s. And then he turns, not quite realising how close Ryouma had drawn himself. An odd thing, considering how the man had bristled at him earlier. Marx does not sigh as he pushes Ryouma’s hand off in one swoop. A simple movement he could have passed for anything, but he did not try to cover it. Their armour clicks, an unpleasant sound, that echoed even as the fire crackled in front of them.

“Let us return, then,” as he turns to Leon, he does not let his voice jump. “I still require her to be put under guard.”

“Allow Zero to watch her.” Whilst Leon had seemingly accepted there was no other alternative, he was not above bartering, either.

“No. A third party who is not involved with those who found her shall watch over her.”

A pregnant pause fills the air, as Leon stares solidly. And then, he averts his eyes, a solid fury hiding in the corners, that has him spit out a “Fine.”

Marx manages to mask his surprise, just barely, but knows that Leon would find his own way. He still had far too many questions on his mind, as to what Nyx was to Leon, and why he was holding her so closely. Whilst he did believe that Leon knew she was nearby, the genuine concern was something that Marx took note of. But then his eyes fell on the bodies behind Leon, and he could not say for sure if she was innocent. 

“Let us go.” Ryouma finds his voice, and Marx only turns, the simplest acknowledgement that he had heard the other king. Marx cannot find it in himself to offer to help, not with how Leon passed Nyx over to Takumi, before hoisting himself into his own saddle. With some manoeuvring, they manage to pull her up, and Marx rests back, watching carefully as Leon does not let her slip. 

Clearing his throat, Ryouma makes some hand movement at Takumi, and he leads on, Leon following closely. Just as Marx makes a move to follow, he is cut off. “What is the meaning of this, King Ryouma?” his tone does not betray his displeasure, and he is tempted to drive his horse forward. Marx does not follow through with the temptation, simply watching their younger brothers disappear over the hill.

“We need to talk.”

“About what in particular? You have already undermined me twice today, as king and brother. I should be the one demanding you to _talk_.”

 Ryouma furrows his brow, and Marx recognises that expression — it was the one he had sent him off with when they had left Hoshido. A quiet confusion, and a thinly veiled amount of anger. Marx did not know what he had done once again, to deserve such a look, but he returns his own, not backing down now.

“There are many things. Far too many to even begin, but we shall start with how you so casually regarded those bodies of the soldiers behind you.”

There is no need to turn, to regard them once more. “They are not part of the royal guard. Simply planted here to deter said guard from likely investigating the ongoings in the castle. An old tactic normally implemented by nobility who want to have a chance at the crown.” Taking a breath, Marx lessens his fury, and focuses on Ryouma once more. “This is not the first time men and women have burned for the sake of some noble’s pious nature.”

“And yet you will let this go? Blame someone such as that lady who seems to be the only survivor?”

“Lady Nyx will be detained, as it would be expected. We have to play to their game, to be able to unearth them. Likely tonight, they will reveal themselves. If we do not abide by the rules, not only would the lady suffer, but likely my crown as well.”

Finally, Ryouma shows something other than confusion. Disgust, slow but sure, overcomes him, and Marx notes how his grip on his reins slackens. Despite the voices in the back of his mind, telling him he should not have revealed the game, should have let himself play an antagonist, should there be anyone near, he could not help himself. Ryouma did not seem able to form words, pursing his lips as he regarded Marx once more. A grand game, that Ryouma did not understand. “Using lives so carelessly… that is a cruelty I can never accept.”

Marx was not himself as he spoke. He did not think so, as it seemed he was simply watching, just behind his shoulders, as he continued to blink and breathe. An odd sensation, as words left his mouth, even though it was not him. “Yet when you swore yourself to me, as I to you, you promised to accept wholly whatever means I needed to find an end.”

Ryouma’s words, at the end of the war. When Marx had said that Nohr would not be reformed in a day, and that there would be sacrifices along the way. At that time, Ryouma had held him, and told him that he would be there. That not only Hoshido would support rebuilding Nohr, to a glory the likes of that had never been seen, but one that could be looked on proudly, to be regarded as friend. 

Expression darkening, at his own words thrown back at him, Ryouma seemed to raise up on his haunches, seemingly larger with anger. “Had I known years ago, that you, of all people, would ignore such actions—”

“I would hardly consider this _ignoring_ —”

“And use it to your advantage… Those rumours,” a deep shaky breath, and Ryouma closed his eyes, only for a second, as if he were considering his next words. “Those rumours, about you and your _father_ , were right. King Sumeragi was right to deter me from visiting, all those years ago.”

Something in Marx stops, then runs to catch up, snapping at the violent vein that runs through him. Garon was not quite a memory yet, still a ghost around the corner, still a presence with a crown. A younger Garon, who had held Marx as he had cried when his mother passed, was just as fresh in his mind as the one who had wished to slaughter all. “You stopped _visiting_ because your fool of a father could not keep his wife under control! Spilling Nohrian blood in neutral territory!”

“I beg your pardon?!”

Too deep. He had let his emotions get the better of him. Marx was not sure where to go from here, but he watched carefully as Ryouma’s hand slid to the hilt of his sword, and followed suit. “Do not act innocent! We both know your mother stabbed that maiden in a fit!”

“Do not dare speak of my mother that way!! You have no right!”

“A woman died, and you Hoshidans simply swept her death away. Passing it off as an accident, as I recall!”

“One woman’s death versus the deaths of many! Neither of these situations are comparable, King Marx, and you are far too proud to consider them as such.” With a scoff, Ryouma finally pulls his horse away. “You are far worse than those nobles you continued to spit over. I hope those poor souls haunt you.”

“And you are just like every other king before you, kept locked in your gilded cage, still not seeing how the world is before you.” The last word. Why did he always require the last word with Ryouma? Something about the man had managed to fire him up, not always in the best way possible. Here he was, spitting venom to the man he had to consider ally, and yet Marx could not hold his tongue any longer, not even as Ryouma’s face fell.

A tether had been broken in him, something that held him to a past of summers in Hoshido, careful whispers around a fire, and warmth. It was always warm whenever Ryouma looked over at him, even in the most biting cold. Yet at the moment, feeling like his armour had fallen away, and he was bare before the man, he felt such a chill, when those eyes no longer turned back. 

I have made a mistake, he thinks. Surprisingly, Marx notes that a part of him does not mind at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry but not really
> 
> also this chapter was HUGE because it lead onto the next night of the coronation but I had to cut it here. 
> 
> and, i have actually moved notes from this part here to my tumblr just to make this seem like... cleaner. idk its just me ig. also again i have grouped all fics in this sort of story canon under "a perfect world". there is a reading order in the description but they are listed in order of posting. idk. fkn ao3 wont let me arrange in reading order w/e
> 
> for chap 8 notes are found: [here](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/145052642760/)


	9. Wicked eyes

Marx had never been overly fond of the castle jail, nor any jail for that matter. He could not say for sure that it was prior experience in being down, so far underground, surrounded by the damp walls, that made him so hesitant. A part of him remembered an attempt to free a brother, close in age, from a cell, yet no matter what he could not recall the last turn, no matter what. When he walked down those corridors, despite the coat and the boots, he still shivered, and wondered if that particular stain on the wall was from him or someone else. 

He did not allow himself to linger on the past, as soldiers snapped to attention, greeting him. An odd thing, considering most others would not recognise him without the armour, the sword. Eyeing them, Marx could not deny the jitters in his fingers at the sheer thought, and waved them off. It was when they did not jump straight to it, that he knew. 

Whilst he was not overtly fond of rapiers, and knew there was some old king rolling in his grave at the mere thought of a ceremonial sword being used to bring down his attackers, Marx paid no heed. The first man he caught off guard, going down with a gurgle as the thin blade managed to slip through his eyehole, a wet pop resounding. Lip curling, as Marx thrust the weapon back, a shake and the guard falling to his side with a loud clang. Raising the weapon, Marx held it steady, his hand not twitching, and resolute.

“How do you know of this place?” It was not the first question at the forefront of his mind, but it was the one that made it onto his tongue. In truth, he was curious. No one was aware of this part of the jail underneath Castle Krakenstein. Those who were only aware were Marx himself, and Camilla. Now, Leon too, but that was only as he had insisted on accompanying Marx down earlier, to watch over Nyx. 

Marx did not allow himself to be swayed by possibilities, despite the grin on the guard’s face. He receives a spit poorly aimed at his boots, and a yell, axe raised above the man’s head. In that split second, Marx does not see such a venture ending well for himself, as the man turns in place, swinging the axe down. 

The man takes one step forward, before crumpling into a dusty heap, axe dropping with a pitiful screech against metal. Blinking, Marx rights himself, unable to not stare at the scraps of armour and cloth now, over the pile where the man once stood. With a click of his tongue, Marx sheaths the rapier at his hip, and crosses his arms.

“I suppose that makes us even now?”

Not responding immediate to the light tease, Marx resists the urge to sigh. Being ‘saved’ was starting to grate on his nerves. “Lady Nyx,” he starts, although he is not quite sure where his next sentence will end. “I thank you, but that was unnecessary.”

Crouching down, Marx pulls at the first man he killed, dragging him further into the light. There is a mirthless laugh from behind the bars, as Nyx steps closer. Marx does not give her the pleasure of looking up at her, and rolls the man onto his back. Thumbing the cloth under his armour, Marx is not greatly surprised by what texture he feels, and notes the way the Nohrian armour does not fight quite right. “Hoshidan make.” He finally allows himself to sigh. “An unfortunate thing.”

Slowly, Marx looks up at Nyx. “But, this is something you already knew.”

She smiles, like the cat who caught the canary, and Marx could not distinguish if it was him or the dead men. Leaning forward, she rests her forearms on the bars, and tilts her head. An action that did not settle his gut, at all. So unlike the Nyx he knew from all those months prior. “They had only just changed over from the previous guards, too. I am surprised they lasted as long as they did.”

“I do have to ask what gave them away so fast.”

A snort. And there was the Nyx he knew. “They spoke in their mother tongue, assuming I was asleep.”

“So they were new men, first time out in the field.” Marx smiles at the small laugh Nyx gives.

“Or too confident in their abilities. Whatever fools hired those two, they wasted money on dirt.”

“Hopefully such dirt will lead us to their master. Do you believe they were also behind the burnings just out of the city walls.”

Finally, Nyx falls silent, pursing her lips as if she were choosing her next few words carefully. Marx could feel his nerves rattle again, fingers twitching just so in response. Standing, presses her once more. “I have faith you were not involved, Nyx, but your silence is not giving me confidence in myself.”

“I did burn the bodies, King Marx, but not for the reason you may be thinking.”

Marx cannot help the splutter of “ _What?!_ ” that has Nyx simply sigh. “But,” he says, eyes wide as he takes in the tired look she gives him. “Please, Lady Nyx… do not say you…” he trails off. A biting betrayal fills him, as he remembers a Nyx who wished for atonement, and saw the war as a way to do some good, to counteract her former life.

“There was a plague of some sort.” Voice small, Marx strains to hear her. “My hands are not meant for healing, and I could only burn the bodies. And it grew so fiercely, that no one was able to leave to alert the city, lest it spread. It only began a few days prior.”

“How did you survive?”

A thin smile, as Nyx motions to herself. “It seems that this curse is quite intent on letting me prolong my suffering. I may have arrived in the last day of the spread, but I caught only a slight cough.”

Rocking back on his heels, Marx catches himself at the old habit, before twisting his hands behind his back. A plague they had managed to contain to a town. It would have to be burnt down, and moved, he knew. Whilst the bodies may have been disposed of, there were still sheets, clothing, food storages. Any livestock. Such a debilitating loss, and Marx’s mind raced at the information it had only arrived a few days prior. But, it must not have harmed the Hoshidan family, as they had crossed through without any problem.

“King Ryouma had passed through, and has shown no signs of illness.”

“A contingent of soldiers came to announce that the Hoshidans would pass through, but they left as quickly as they had spoken. It may not have been them.”

“And yet it may have been.” Marx looks down at the dead man, and nudges him with the toe of his boot. “There are far too many questions for now, and not nearly enough answers.”

“Confronting the Hoshidan King would not be the wisest course of action, King Marx. If he were behind such going-ons, it would only ask for retaliation.”

Quietly, Marx speaks. “I do not believe Ryouma to be behind this.” Catching his mistake, the lack of title apparent, and Nyx smiles softly.

“In my heart, I believe it was not him either, especially not when it regards the likes of you, but he may have brought someone with him who was.” She does not speak of his lull in concentration, but reaches out to pat his hand. “The longer you linger here, King Marx, with a dead man at your feet, the more people upstairs will talk. You should leave.”

With a frown, Marx nods. “I am sorry for keeping you down here.” And he means it, his earlier anger towards Leon he was able to mull over during the better part of the day, regretting such words. Such force to keep Nyx away, despite how he claimed to Ryouma’s face he believed she was not involved, despite his grievances. Exhaustion had never affected him so, but it was ebbing at the corners of his vision, a growl in his throat that did not agree simple offhand comments.

(There was also his biting remarks towards Ryouma, and the late Queen Ikona, he knew he could not take back. The crestfallen look on Ryouma’s face was etched behind his eyelids, and if he listened close enough he could still hear Ryouma comparing him to the Nohrian court)

“I understand. Although, I would much prefer to be a level higher. My magic cannot reach you from here, sadly. Whatever old incantations that had been wrought into this stone, they are still holding strong.” With a pointed pause, Nyx does look down at the man she turned to ash. “Save for a few spells, I suppose.”

Finally, Marx allows himself to laugh. Another thorough shake of his hand, and he bows. “I shall make plans to move you to a higher level.”

“That is all I ask.”

Marx watches Nyx fall back against the dark of her cell, and takes that as his cue to leave. Not before he stoops low once more, turning over the man’s gear once more. Perhaps a hope to find a missive of some sort, directions on what to do next. Was their plan to kill Nyx, or just himself? Had they not accounted for Nyx to be there at that exact moment? All Marx finds is a handful of Hoshidan coin, and a dagger, with what looked to be three flowers etched over several leaves on the handle. Tucking them inside his coat, Marx bows low towards the bars of the cell, and leaves.

Of course, his luck dictates he would run into trouble three flights of stairs on his way up to the level of the hall, and whilst he avoids an outright confrontation, just barely, Marx does look back. Zero breezes past him, and Marx believes that may have been a curl of a smile directed towards him, but he could not say for sure, because it was nothing but poisonous, and then the man is enveloped in the dark.

“Oh, thank the gods, there you are, Marx! We have been looking for you all over!”

As he turns a corner, hands reaching out to throw open the doors to the hall, he stops to see Camilla and Elise hurry over. Raising a brow at their plain faces, he sees no need to comment, merely pushing a loose piece of hair behind Elise’s ear, and turning to Camilla. “I had business to attend to.”

“Such business that required you to step out for several hours?”

Nodding, Marx almost goes to show the dagger he had found upon the man, or even the Hoshidan coin, but stops himself. “There was a prisoner brought in earlier today I wished to have a word with.”

“And that could not have waited until tomorrow?”

Marx can feel the corners of his mouth turn downwards, as Camilla talks further about the nobility. How they commented on him _abandoning_ the dinner partway through. Of how he was no better than his flighty father. Taking the wrought iron mask from Camilla’s hands, Marx affixes it to his face, pulling the string tight around his head, and forces himself to remain silent. It was an itch, under his skin. The court was flexing its boundaries as early as it could, seeing how far it could push Marx. Camilla was not aware she was only bowing to do their bidding, by throwing question after question at him.

Did they truly believe him to still be such a young man, such a stupid boy, whose first expedition lead to the death of ten men? That was near two decades ago, and it was not comparable. Marx repeated such thoughts to himself, over and over, as he flung to doors open. Eyes turned, hidden by golden masks, that only bared mouths. Mouths that begun to speak at once, a steady thrum that echoed in his ears, and Marx caught his name there, and there, and over there. An elderly woman spoke behind a fan, a young man laughed over a glass of wine, and a gaggle of girls squeaked all at once. 

Marx seated himself beside Ryouma, the one man who did not speak his name. Ryouma did not stiffen, did not react at all, simply idly picked at the Nohrian cuisine presented for that night, and ignored him. Perhaps there had been no salvaging of themselves now, Marx thought, but that did not stop him from nudging the dagger against the hand that rest on Ryouma’s thighs, until his fingers spread enough to grip the handle.

Ryouma pulls the dagger further onto his lap, and his expression does not betray his interest in the slightest, as he looks down. A disgusted sort of look curls onto his face, and he pushes it back over, not nearly as subtle as Marx. “You have already spurned me several times over the course of this day alone, King Marx, but that offends more than just my sensibilities.”

“Then you are aware of such a blade?” Marx asks into a glass of wine, eyes watching Ryouma closely. He was not frazzled, but he was annoyed, nails scraping at his skin as if it might rid of the touch.

“You are not privy to such information, King Marx.”

“It was found on the body of a man who managed to get ahold of Nohrian armour.”

Opening his mouth, and then closing, before repeating the motion, Ryouma was rather reminiscent of a fish, and the thought had Marx smile despite himself. Oh, how he wished he were a little stronger, just in this small matter, just enough for him to talk without letting his gaze drop when Ryouma looked away. Marx lowered his glass, cushioning the noise as he set it on the table on his little finger, and looked out over the crowd. They were not on terms that would warrant such thoughts, and any anger Marx had towards the man, he had packed away, hidden it for the night. When the man was out of his orbit, he could work through, decipher words and pauses. Marx might have been able to understand then, what he did not know now.

“That is the seal of a clan who is quite insistent upon taking the Hoshidan throne.”

Marx turns faster than he intended. That was news to him. For all he had known, Ryouma had been sure that the throne were to be his, no matter how many men and women stood in his way. Whilst he had spoken of marriage and an heir to secure his hold — a thought which still cracked a horrible yellow in the back of Marx’s mind — Ryouma had never said otherwise. There was simply no contest, and Marx had believed that.

“But—?”

“Many back in the capital believe we are… too _forgiving_ , and simply sending too many _gifts_ to help our Nohrian allies.” Ryouma sniffs. “Dogs in the court are howling at my back. I had thought your coronation to be a good excuse to step away for a while.”

“And yet they followed you here?”

Gritting his teeth, Ryouma seemed to mull over a response. A drawn out silence, as he finally speaks at the lull in music. “And yet, even here, I cannot find myself happy in your presence.”

No words to speak back, as Marx simply stares. He had expected such a response, somewhere. If he thought closely, the words were ones echoed to him, years ago. The first boy he had fallen for, but that had been another time, another place. Marx does not feel his heart stop, but nor does it slow. Acceptance, is what he would call it.

As Ryouma stands, he grunts. “They call me the _Fool King_ in the court. Just like my father, for trusting a Nohrian King. I would like to prove them wrong, but,” Ryouma turns to him, smiling sadly. “I cannot deny myself something, no matter how unhappy it makes me in the end.”

Unexpected. Ryouma always caught him in such unexpected ways, especially when there was nothing but a thread hanging between them, binding them together. Marx’s mind races to process his words, and his mouth barely gets a “What, wait, Ryouma?!” but Ryouma walks off, leaving him behind to try to catch up once more.

Leaning back in his seat, Marx did not wipe at his brow, or pull at his collar. He simply sat and watched as Ryouma pulled his sister away from the nobles, and spun Camilla around in the most offensive rendition of Nohrian dance. Acceptance. Marx had accepted he was not worthy enough of such affection, back then, and again now. And yet Nyx’s knowing smile along with her words lingered in the back of his mind. 

Yesterday, the day before, several months prior or two years ago, Marx might have felt light all over, for Ryouma to admit so freely something private. But the Hoshidan blade in his pocket weighed that joy down, and he simply frowned behind his mask. Was he playing into Ryouma’s hands? Marx had said to Nyx, that he did not believe Ryouma to be behind it. And his reaction said enough, the disgust had to be real.

It had to be.

“King Marx?”

Shaking himself to look up, Marx sees the one woman he had not expected to come to him. “Princess Hinoka? How may I be of service?”

“Want to dance?”

Perhaps it was Marx’s sudden stunned silence that had her turn a wonderful shade of pink. “I mean… would you like to dance? Is that how you say it?” She mumbles something, something Hoshidan, before she crosses her arms over her chest. “I am afraid these sorts of things are beyond me.”

Marx stood, unable to stop the slight smile. A distraction, of sorts, but not an unpleasant one. Hinoka had always managed to be so greatly refreshing, even if she had skittered about the first few times they had spoken. It may have been due to the casual tone she took with him, but he rested his hand on the small of her back, and led her slowly to the rest of the dancers. 

“You look absolutely lovely tonight, Princess Hinoka.”

Making a face, Hinoka shakes her head, the little trinkets in her hair chiming away. “Sakura looks far better than I do. And these shoes are so hard to walk in.” Marx thinks he hears her say she misses her boots, but he takes her hand, and rests his other at her waist.

They simply sway to and fro, Marx far too conscious of those weird shoes she was wearing, and did not hesitate to note that Ryouma moved as if it did not worry him. Would Hinoka feel the same? Experimentally, Marx spins her around, and Hinoka moves with a certain ease, as if the shoes were no problem at all. 

“I have a confession to make, King Marx.”

“Oh?”

“Ryouma convinced me to wear such fancy dress for your sake.”

“My sake?” Marx does not let himself linger on any implications, Ryouma’s words still fresh in his mind. There was too much to think about all at once. His head hurt.

“Well, it was not just Ryouma. They just…” Hinoka gives a frustrated sigh, and looks away. Before she removes her hold, and pushes the sleeves further up her arm, revealing her forearms. Material slips down again, and she repeats the motion, as if it gives her time to think. Clasping his arms behind his back, Marx does not press her.

“They want you to propose to me.”

“ _They_?”

“Yes, _they_. Get me in this _furisode_ as if to give you any idea. I doubt you understand the meaning of such a _kimono_?” Hinoka trails off into a question, raising her brows as she looks at him.

Marx shakes his head, starting to feel like he was completely out of safe waters now. Had he known this morning he would awaken to find a burning village, fracture his relationship with the Hoshidan King and his brother, to then have the eldest Hoshidan princess present herself (was this considered presenting herself if she so clearly wished against it?), Marx would have not believed such a day possible. 

“It means I am… available for marriage. Apparently I am getting too old, and they wish to marry me off to whoever they so choose.” 

“But you are your own person, Princess Hinoka.”

“ _I_ know that! If it is for Ryouma’s sake… to secure his throne…”

“I was aware that he already had it?”

Hinoka bites the inside of her mouth, cheek denting to give the action away, and Marx realises he would be going into dangerous territory. Too much for one day, his mind caws, yet his mouth presses her further. “You can trust me.”

Taking a deep breath, Hinoka steels herself. “He does. But, there are people who are unhappy. King Marx,” she lowers her voice to a whisper. “I am afraid of what is happening back home.”

Marx does not tell her of the blade, or the soldiers, or the dark mage who knows more than she is letting on. Marx does not try to assure her that nothing would happen, because he did not know. Hoshido and their court was foreign to him, and from what he had been able to read, been able to learn, it was quite simplistic. Apparently the court was far too relaxed in terms of war, far too busy writing poems. How they had managed to cut at Nohr’s borders for so long was beyond Marx, when he learnt about previous Kings and their many wives and children. 

But the knowledge that people were beginning to fight was unnerving, as Marx knew it had the potential to spill back into Nohr. Chevalier still would not respond to the crown’s interest, in regaining a source of wyvern knights. They demanded to be freed of Nohr, and Marx had not had enough time to discuss letting them go. Dia and Nestra were places too, hesitant to join back under the crown. Neutrality was not a thing that could be so easily held onto, not when a war had ravaged them. Marx would provide allies, but he wanted something in return.

And then there was Mokushuu, and their agreement with his father. Marx had only found out about such things towards the end of the war. It was Suzukaze who had told him, quietly, that the crown had been brokering deals. Ashura, he had been told, was one of the survivors of that political mess. But it was him, himself, who had found out about Mokushuu’s appearance in the kidnapping of Aqua.

“Princess Hinoka, do you know the significance of this mask?” His own words startled him, and Hinoka’s worry turned to confusion.

“No, I must admit, this entire event is quite strange.”

“Surprisingly, this is the shorter version. I digress, this mask is meant to represent the people. Wrought iron, of which the crown itself is made of. We do not use gold.”

Hinoka does not seem to follow, but Marx did not expect her to. He was sure, even to the youngest person in the room, the use of iron on the crown was lost to them. Its meaning had lost its sentimentality years ago, but it was still a practice. One, Marx had abandoned, when he had accepted the diadem instead. But he kept that to himself, and continued speaking.

“The nobility wear the gold, to represent their worth, and leave their mouths free, to show how their words affect us.”

“What an odd tradition.”

“An old one, but it has been that way for far too long.”

“‘Too long’? Are you planning on changing that, King Marx?”

Marx motions towards where he could finally see Leon, talking amongst other nobles. On his face too, sat a wrought iron mask. Relief flooded through Marx at that, something he had not expected. Leon may not speak to him, not in the next day, nor in months, but he chose to wear the iron mask, and Marx was happy. Another tradition broken, Marx noted. Only the king was supposed to wear such ornaments. Hinoka follows his gaze, but does not understand. 

“I have already begun to make changes. Perhaps, your brother could learn the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally the second night is over. third day/night of the coronation next and then... hah
> 
> notes are: [here](http://hotlineaisui.tumblr.com/post/145451804220/)


	10. Man with the Moon

It is strange, being slightly shorter. Surely, now Marx stood at a more comfortable height compared to the rest of the nobility, as opposed to towering over them. Yet that was such a discerning feeling, being _equal_ to the rest of them. And overlooked so easily, as he now was simply not himself, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. No, now he was gently resting in the body of Leon, soul still not quite taking to the transition, but only a few more hours, at most. 

That morning, he had sat with Camilla and Leon, as Nyx had spoken of what happened the night before. In his hands, he had held the golden mask of the courts, and Leon held a double. Such a thing had never been attempted before, in all the history of Nohr, and even as they had spoken of Hoshidan enemies in their walls, Marx had seen the way Camilla had looked. How Leon avoided his gaze once again. Did they understand what Marx was gambling, at that moment? The enemy was in their walls, and Marx knew their so-called noble court was more at play than they were letting on.

_Playing at Leon_ , as his brother’s retainer had spat, would give him a chance to meld in and listen. There was something to be said at how his brother was far more well received by the populace, and if Marx had to suffer through one more comment on proposals of marriage, be it for him or Leon, he was afraid he would break. Yet he remained calm, laughing away such things, speaking as he had been taught. Both Zero and Nyx had picked and prodded at his posture and manner, hours cooped up in his chambers as he practiced simple things such as walking. 

Marx did not want to linger on those implications. He had his thoughts, just as he had thoughts on Camilla, but did not interfere. Should it come up sometime in the future, then so be it, but their constant touching helped him. Lord Leon does not brush his hair back when he is flustered, only when he is absolutely astute in a point, he can hear Zero tell him in the back of his mind, and Marx can imagine the way his eyes crinkle at the edges as he recounts such a little thing.

Women and their hands are upon Marx, and he does as he was trained to do. A careful, lingering touch to the back of a hand from Lady Celeste of the Fourth Quarter, one of the more favourable women who attended his father’s court. Her sons were no doubt lingering somewhere, and Marx did have one thought to make sure Elise was nowhere near those pigs, but he smiles behind the mask, giving it a slight lift. Giving away his _joy_ at her attendance.

“A pleasure to see you once again, Prince Leon,” she caws, retracting her hand. A daughter by her elbow titters, eyes flashing in a way that Marx recognised, and he felt that momentary sorrow for Leon — something that Leon may never know himself. 

“As always, it gives me great joy to see you again, Lady Celeste. One of your daughters, I presume?” Marx had always wondered how such a woman was able to produce such rotten children, but at least this girl at her side seemed to be teetering on the edge of not going down that road. And, Marx did not hesitate to draw the comparison to his own father. Rotten children, indeed.

“My lovely Grace. Nearly of age, too.”

Smile tightening, Marx regardless gave the same press, before taking her hand, and drawing it to the mouth of his mask. A pity. She would be married to another man who claimed to be a war hero, who would drain her no doubt, in less than a year. Lady Celeste was a clever player of the Game, but she had never been good at choosing partners for her children. Marx had seen many fall in the years he had known the woman. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Grace.”

Grace giggles behind her hand, and her mother swats her in the shoulder. Something Marx had seen too many a time at this event, and he would be glad that this was the last night. Having already been drilled about ending it so quickly, Marx had merely hand waved those concerns. Dragging out such fanfare only opened him up further to an assassination attempt or two, and as he had said to Camilla, he was rather disappointed it had not happened so far.

So far, she had echoed, squeezing his hand before moving on. Not as if he was unarmed, and it still felt so strange to be able to move his arm once again. At his hip swung a simple blade, as well as Leon’s book, tucked into a satchel that was far more gaudy than it’s usual counterpart. Camilla had proclaimed it to be a gift, and Leon had turned scarlet, before saying more words in once sentence than Marx had heard from him in days. Truly, his sister always managed to work wonders where Marx would falter.

“I fear I must move on, Lady Celeste. I can see my poor brother being hounded by Lady Jeanne.” Motioning over her shoulder, Marx laughed lightly. “Only a matter of time until she pulls him from his clothes, I fear.”

Lady Celeste laughs, covering her mouth daintily with the back of her hand. Practiced. “Would that not be a sight to be seen, hm?” Marx can see Grace light up somewhat, at the prospect, and does hope she will not be present as the festivities truly went on. Only a matter of time until the dancers were brought out, which would bring out the worst in people when combined with the ever-flowing wine. “We will let you go then, Prince Leon. Give your brother our best.”

“Of course.”

As Marx moves on, he notices the eyes watching him. No doubt trying to figure out why he had kissed the hand of the Lady Grace, who still had yet to come of age. Not as if he was placing favour just yet, but Leon had instructed him on who to interact with carefully. Currying favour with the daughter confirmed for her mother that she still had a place in whatever court Marx deemed to hold. Such an awful game they played, but no doubt Grace would be enamoured, and encourage her mother to attend any future events the royalty would hold. Marx did not deny the way his gut twisted, as he remembered the way something like this had been handled, years before, and prayed that Leon knew exactly what he was doing.

“Dear brother, may I steal you away for a moment?” 

Leon looks him over, and it was not the first time Marx felt uneasy, being stared down at. He had moved on from his curiosity, at if this is what Leon felt, but Leon bows, and leads the way out onto the balcony. Prying eyes continued to follow, even as they disappeared well behind one of the great curtains that had been drawn back. Into a deep, dark corner — an accident waiting to happen, Marx thought grimly.

“How much longer?” Leon asks, quickly, hands going to the mask.

Marx raises his hand, but does not go to grasp him, as he might have if he were in his own body. “Do not remove it just yet. We cannot afford to here.” A reminder that they were not alone, no matter how removed they were. From Marx’s experience, if it were not just the simple nobles they had to watch out for, it was also whoever had brought those Hoshidan men in. Such a move dared to muddy the waters once more, and Marx felt a deep sense of regret at having to kill those two down in the jail. It would be reported soon enough to the right people they would not be able to trace. Marx was counting down the minutes until fingers started to get pointed.

“I have not seen King Ryouma among the nobility,” Leon comments, offhandedly, as they stand. Marx does not react, but he can feel that tension in his body rise. He too had noticed the absence. Had heard the others speak of such an insolent act. Would King Marx duel the man over such dishonour. That last part amused them all to varying degrees, but Marx wished to avoid contact. If they were to spar, no doubt his injury would come to light, and Ryouma was an honest man at the worst of times. 

Finally looking over at Leon, Marx feels a need to reply. “Nor Camilla.” True, she had been absent as well. But that was mostly irrelevant, as Marx had a feeling she would leave early to attend to the Northern Fortress. As where she spent all her other time, when she was not tending to him. Such a strange sensation, seeing her leave him behind. Marx did not have time to linger on that thought, as he sees Leon go to speak again.

“Have you spoken to who I suggested?”

“Lord Castor and Sir Elric are not in attendance tonight. Apparently the flu has taken them both.” Marx pauses. “I do not believe that, as they had been the more vocal supporters prior to tonight.”

Leon scratches at his wrist, as that seems to set him more on edge. “You have a few marriage proposals, unfortunately. I could not send them another way.”

“That is fine. I will deal with that later,” Marx replied simply. Truly, he would. There was not enough time to consider finding a wife when he was standing on very thin ice, someone ready to send him to his death at every turn. 

Humming, Leon turns from him, looking into the hall once more. That is when Marx notices the subtle shift in his person, how he seems to tense slightly. Whatever was inside seemed to effect him enough that Marx felt the wariness building, and stepped around the curtain, ready to protect the King as any man would. But he should have known it would not be a simple threat.

“By the gods.”

Marx can feel the air be sucked out of him in an instant, as he takes in the sight before him. Never had he considered himself to be a weak man, but there was something to be said about seeing the heart’s desire. Later, he would question Nyx, about whether having his soul loosened from his natural body heightened any other feelings, but that was for later. Much later.

When he would be able to remove his eyes from the sight of King Ryouma of Hoshido, wearing something very Nohrian. Slim cut around the waist, and his jacket fit snug around the shoulders. Marx would know, if he felt the material, it was simply to make him appear larger, as it would give no matter what. Strange to see him in such form fitting clothing, hair pulled back. In the light, Marx could see beads threaded through his hair, and knew the symbol of the Royal family was stamped into each of them. Camilla was at his arm, and if anyone wanted to send a message as much as they did at that moment, they had to make a bigger show of it.

Leon moves past him, greeting Camilla and Ryouma with all the casual attitude that Marx wished he could find. But he could not. Could not find a thought that did not spin itself around the image before him, of Ryouma throwing his head back to laugh, throat exposed. Even from such a distance, Marx could only imagine brushing his thumb along the skin, feel the way his Adam’s apple would bob as he swallowed. Blinding and terrifying, Marx excused himself to the balcony. Never, not once, had he felt himself go alight from head to toe. Such an awful feeling, knowing that such a man held so much power over him, whether he knew it or not.

In the darkest part, Marx crouches down, head in his hands. Focus, he tells himself, do not let yourself fall now. Everything could be unwound by a simple smile, and Ryouma would be none the wiser. A horrifying thought, that he was so weak at that moment, to be undone by the expression on a man’s face. Marx did not want that, not now, not ever, and pressures himself to stand, to get up and move. To not let Ryouma distract him from the purpose of this magic, of this night.

As he steps out once more, he hears the “King Marx, a word?” and Marx runs cold. Watches as Leon leads Ryouma out, and Marx meets Leon’s eye. No, he did not know what Ryouma had planned. Leon seemed just as confused, but continued on. Of course the damn Hoshidan would ruin everything, as he grabs Leon by the shoulders, spins him around. Did the man not know what social customs were, and how he was threatening everything at that moment (Marx’s heart continued to beat, as he could feel himself there, under Ryouma’s hands, but watched on. Torn between two places, and it hurt). 

Marx does not manage to call out in time. If anything, by the moment he realises, he knew it was too late. Perhaps he could attest it to knowing Ryouma too well, and how he could not control himself, not even now. Leon had spurned him on, and perhaps Marx should have said something, at the very least, but he could not have allowed it. Whilst he trusted Ryouma implicitly, even after everything said between them, those he carried around him were still questionable.

“No—!”

Leon wrests himself from Ryouma’s grasp, taking several steps back. Not into the light of the great hall, still stretching out, but enough to show some distance. A clear sign of distance, and the closer Marx steps, the more he can see Ryouma’s face fall. What a foolish man, all Marx can think, but he does not know who he is directing that thought towards. 

“Marx,” Ryouma says, voice just above a whisper, hand raised. Such a sight to see from somewhere other than his own body, and deep in Marx’s soul he can feel that slight elation, that Ryouma had forgiven him. Just not at the right time, the right place. Stepping into view, Marx clasps his hands behind his back. 

“Do flowers spread under the roots of the tree for the right man?” Reciting something, anything, he can remember, Marx watches the confusion spread over Ryouma’s face. A line he had once said, although not quite phrased such a way, but it was spoken under candlelight and too much wine. Whilst they had found common ground, in the talks of _trees,_ lest there be unwelcome company around, neither could deny the sentimentality and the double meaning.

“I do not understand.”

Marx meets Leon’s eye, and sighs as he nods. There was not much time left anyway, until Nyx’s spell had lifted. This was not the time Marx had wished to break it, of course, but when had luck or timing ever been on his side. At once, they remove their masks, and Marx feels the rush through him, tickled and dark, as if it insisted on pulling his brain apart and setting it back together. Giving himself a moment, just the one, he rights himself, before opening his eyes once more. “The bow of the tree never ceases to amaze,” he murmurs, recognising his own voice, the way his tongue felt in his mouth as he spoke. 

“You… why?” 

That was the thing Marx had never quite understood about Hoshidans — their _fear_ of Nohrian magic. Perhaps, he had once considered, if he had been on the other side, he would be afraid as well. Reanimation was just as common as containment of the soul, the essence of the person. Nothing was to be left alone in the development of their magic. So many societies had been built on a new way to wield Nohrian magic, and Marx only knew of a few handful. Never once had Marx shied from such things, nor had his siblings. Elise was the only one who had taken the other path, despite the lessons. She had taken it upon herself to be something different, for whatever reason, Marx did not know. 

Marx went to explain, before Leon interrupted. Face now free, and soul in its rightful place, Marx could finally see how he let his expressions frame his face. As if Leon had finally had some great revelation, and it disgusted him. “I will leave you two alone. I think that would be for the best.”

“Leon—”

“Please, brother. Spare me for one night.” And he fixes his mask back in place, sufficiently ending whatever Marx may have said. Even then, Marx was not sure what he could have said, where the conversation could have gone. There was nothing to be said that could change what had happened, and Marx did not feel shame, which surprised him more than anything else.

Still felt deeply and madly, as he looked at Ryouma. Poor man, he thinks, lips curling slightly. Always finding a way to get caught in something he should not have.

“Ryouma,” Marx finally says, watches as the man snaps to. “Were you truly going to kiss him so publicly?”

“I had thought him to be you.” That rings several bells, that Ryouma would not have hesitated in such plain view. Impulsive and reckless, traits he was sure to never grow out of. “Had I known…”

“You were not meant to know.”

“Why the trickery, Marx? What did this achieve?”

Inhaling deeply, Marx looked around, noting that the crowds on the balcony were starting to disperse. Dancers had arrived in full, and he could begin to hear the men grow rowdy. Pulling Ryouma by the arm, he takes him further from the door than probably required, but he could not deny how everything in him still tingled, as if he was still adjusting to his own body. As if he were still floating and absorbing. “There are spies here tonight. Already, several of the court have been killed. We had to investigate.”

“So you were _him_?!” Ryouma’s incredulous tone does little more than have Marx’s frown deepen.

“By swapping places, it gave me time to listen in and make decisions about who I wanted in my court. Very few think of Leon beyond a way into the family. They would all flock to him to talk, whilst only the brave would approach myself.”

Ryouma seems satisfied, if still disturbed, but still continues to speak. Marx can feel the attraction start to wane, the more he opened his mouth. “Surely there were other ways.”

“There are a number of them, but I do not have the time. Hoshidans are killing my men—”

“A great claim—”

“And managing to make it into areas of the castle even we are not allowed.” Marx finishes, annoyed at the interruption. “Time is not something I have.” Too much, he had given far too much away, and in not the safest of places. Something about Ryouma had that awful effect on him, and Marx would give anything for this feeling to leave him, so he could return to being carefully shared poems at the war table.

Ryouma goes to run his hand through his hair, before he realises that it was pulled back. Clear frustration shows on his face. “I had my suspicions, but this is—You should have told me.”

“I could not have. I did not want to, either.”

Whilst he does not pout, he pulls just as sour an expression, and looks away. Marx deserved that, he was sure, but Ryouma needed to hear it. Needed to know where he stood, as simply the honoured guest of the Nohrian family. Had they been back, travelling around, trying to conquer the great evil that threatened their world, it would have been a different story. Except they were simply in Vindam, the nest of vipers, and Marx wanted to keep him away. 

Keep him safe, his mind supplies, and Marx despises that thought all at once. Swinging too violently between such things like simple emotions, and it was making his head hurt. After effect of Nyx’s magic, he was starting to believe. 

“I would have kissed you.” 

“It would have been Leon,” Marx finds himself reminding Ryouma. “You would not have known, but it would have been him.”

“Not that I have never entertained that thought,” Ryouma says, smirking somewhat over the balcony as he stares up at the walls and the way the torches shine. “I suppose I have a preference.”

“This is not a joking matter, Ryouma.”

“Then, _tell_ a man next time, when you decide to switch bodies. You Nohrians and your habits!”

“You Hoshidans and your constantly broken ideals.”

A stab, at some part or other. Ryouma knew what it meant, from the way his face fell, and shifted uncomfortably in his clothing. His _Nohrian_ clothing, absolute travesty that it was. Marx wanted to reassure him he looked handsome, but those words were not on his lips, and would not be for quite some time. 

“Marx, I am _sorry_.”

“I know. I should have said something, but I did not.” And Marx can feel the pause overcome him, as the words catch in his throat. What a horrible man he was, always making Ryouma apologise to him. Reaching out, Marx carefully takes Ryouma’s hands in his, fingers brushing scars and raised bumps and slightly shifted bones. Remembers how those hands had carefully cradled him only a few days prior. “I am sorry. I should have trusted you.”

As Marx raises Ryouma’s hands to his lips, he watches as the man’s eyes widen. Threatening more than just a simple excuse of too much wine. Exposing himself so deeply, to this man. This foolish, impulsive man. “Forgive me,” Marx whispers, against that skin he so dearly adored. 

Ryouma draws closer, mumbling something in Hoshidan as he frees his hands from Marx. Presses dry, warm palms against his cheeks. “For one night, let me have you. You, and only you. Not the prince, nor the king, but _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a friend talked me into continuing. you can thank them.
> 
> also, i made a sideblog for this fic, just bc of the sheer amount of notes and side stories and world building i went into this. i plan on uploading everything eventually. feel free to send asks and stuff about it if you want.
> 
> chapter 10 notes: [here](http://thegoldendream.tumblr.com/post/152901474336/the-golden-dream-chapter-10-notesmore-1-in)


	11. Awakening

Marx does not remember the last time he had been allowed to sleep in so peacefully. Waking is like slowly drawing from a warm dream, comforting and a fogginess in his brain that he does not will away immediately. There is weight across his chest, soft snores at his ear, a tenderness in his entire being. For the first time in a long time, Marx did not think this to be so dangerous. It was _nice_ , for lack of a better word. 

With an arm slung across Marx’s chest, Ryouma is not ready to move. Whilst Marx knew he was exhausted — only during the night did he finally feel it in his bones — Ryouma was the perfect picture of tired. How they had managed to keep him upright all night was beyond Marx, truly, as the man had fallen back on Marx’s bed at some ridiculous hour of the morning, claiming a spot in the middle and refusing to move.

Right arm numb under Ryouma, Marx sees no reason to remove himself. Blinking once, twice, he stares up at the ceiling, at the painting that spanned the entire space, and caught himself smiling. So strange, he muses. And that is all he thinks.

The Hoshidans would leave before nightfall. Another insult to the Court, no doubt, for their honoured guests to be ushered back to their own country so soon. Ryouma had said something or other about his own court, but that was lost in between a kiss to his cheek and a hand to his cock. Marx does have to consider that he should not have pursued so hard, when Ryouma seemed to want to actually speak, yet he could not stop. 

A slight shift from Marx has Ryouma groan, following him across the bed. Camilla would return to the Northern Fortress. Her assistance was needed longer, but Marx could not find it in him to ask for more. All he desired from her was a year of her time. One year to rebuild what their father had ruined. Except she had found some sort of happiness, something Marx did not want to trample over it now.

Sighing, Marx turned his attention to Ryouma once more. He could not recall a time when he had the luxury of being so close, to be able to count the spattering of freckles over the man’s nose. Marx huffs a laugh, as he remembers how once he had witnessed the habit some of the soldiers had of carrying umbrellas, trying to cover their lords and ladies. Ryouma had groused until Marx didn’t see one until it was raining, but it was still such a strange concept to him (and, he realises, he had never found time to ask ‘why’). 

“Stop moving.”

Honestly, the grumble startled Marx enough to do the opposite of what was ordered, drawing a grunt from Ryouma. He had not thought he was moving a lot, considering he had stopped himself from leaving the bed altogether. “Good morning,” is what Marx says however, smiling as he realised they had never greeted each other like this before.

Ryouma does not return the sentiment unfortunately, opting to burrow his face into Marx’s shoulder with something rough and distinctly Hoshidan. Marx would translate that to something like ‘too early’, except his Hoshidan was barely passable on the best of days, and in such a situation there was next to none in his mind. Tightening his arm around Ryouma, he hauls the man closer still, ignoring the protests muffled by skin. 

“It is impolite not to greet a man back.”

“I refuse.” Gods, did anyone know what a complete child the Hoshidan King turned into? Even if he was complaining, Ryouma’s arms remained locked around Marx, a leg hoisted up over his hip now. 

“And may I ask why?”

“A man does not deserve such a greeting when,” pauses for a yawn, Ryouma rubbing the end of his nose. His eyes are finally cracking open, “when the man asking to be greeted poured too much wine and then tries to leave the bed.”

“I did not force you to drink the wine.”

“Yet you try to leave the bed.”

“Not yet.”

There is a look in Ryouma’s eyes that Marx cannot place. And maybe he does not want to put it somewhere, label it and think about it later. Such a strange notion, to not push even the slightest action out of his mind, to have to worry over at another time of day. Perhaps, Marx considers, with the way Ryouma’s cheeks lift, how his eyes hover shut, and such a slight pull of lips, the look he gives is not a bad thing. There is no awful weight, a feeling of wanting to close up once such a thing passes. 

It is so oddly warm and _loving_ , something Marx does not feel wholly deserving of. 

“We have to leave soon.”

Ryouma yawns again, breaking the warmth only just. “Saizou will no doubt hover outside my room, and disperse any thoughts. Nothing to concern yourself over.”

Marx wants to tell him how the walls have eyes, that no matter how quiet they speak, their voices will carry. Instead, Marx catches the ends of Ryouma’s hair, twirling the pieces around a finger. “Your hair is longer.” Such is the passage of time, he muses.

“As is yours.” A heavy hand pushes his hair back, tangling in knots and pulling it to where it sat just at his shoulders. Marx had known about his hair for quite some time, and how it hung rather lank at his shoulders. After the war, Elise had been the one to suggest a cut, straight across, but it was one of the few things Marx had put off. 

Catching Ryouma’s hand with his own (should he pull any more hairs free from Marx’s scalp with how insistent he was on ‘brushing’), Marx holds him close. They should get up, begin the day. No doubt the Hoshidans had quite a bit to do before they left. Marx was sure he could find some papers that needed to be signed. Return to a simple monotonous routine that he had promised to devote himself to.

“You want to leave.” His voice is muffled again, the barest hints of sleepiness still present. If it were possible, Marx could feel himself melt into the bed just a little more.

“We should.”

A deep sigh leaves Ryouma. “Always the voice of reason.” Unmissable annoyance coloured his voice, and he is the first to pull away. Rolling onto his back with a grunt, eyes drop to where the sheets dipped at his hips. As Marx followed where he looked, he did not deny that his cheeks warmed as he remembered what was the cause of Ryouma’s discomfort.

Vague mumbles in Hoshidan are what Ryouma leaves behind. Marx has no chance of being able to distinguish what was a comment about their night and what was just a complaint. Instead, he pushes himself up to his elbows, and watches as Ryouma finally stands, scratching at his chest as he went. On one hand, Marx could count the times he had seen Ryouma like this, stumbling around with a hand pressed against his lower back. A grunt that sounded vaguely like “washcloth”, before Ryouma finds it himself, and sets to wiping his thighs down.

Eventually, Marx pulls himself from the bed, reaching his previously discarded pants with haste. Tucking himself in, Marx adjusts the ties at the front, only to stop short. Pain shoots up his arm, sharp and pointed, lingering along his shoulder. He had noticed briefly the previous night how he did not feel the wound — being in another’s body would help with that surely. But even after returning to his own, it was not apparent. Now it seemed the reminded was tenfold what it had been, and Marx could barely flex his fingers. 

“Oh no.” And then he realises: Leon would have been able to feel the injury. Would have felt the pain the entire night, surely, being in Marx’s place. So far, he had done so well with hiding it, but perhaps that would not hold true anymore. Rubbing at his temples as a headache started to appear, Marx did not notice Ryouma drawing closer.

Fingers join his, working their way slowly, rhythmically, over his skin. It does not ease the tension (nothing would, perhaps, aside from an eventual confrontation), but the contact is appreciated, Marx leaning in to Ryouma’s hands. “I do not want you to go.”

It is Marx’s first admission. And the way Ryouma freezes — exactly like the statues found carved around the older parts of Castle Krakenstein — does not stop the turbulent fear storming the front of his mind. Ryouma does blink, eventually, so carefully as if he does not want to keep searching. Marx finds himself asking ‘searching for what’, and draws a blank.

“I apologise, that was too forward. We should—”

Ryouma kisses him. There was nothing particularly different about the kiss, not from any of the others that were between tents, in the far corner of the war room, spread over a desk in an outpost. A same level of desperation and hunger, hands palming skin. 

“R-Ryouma…” Complaints stop when Ryouma’s palm presses against where he had barely managed to tuck himself in. Marx makes a noise in the back of his throat, not entirely displeased with the direction. Yet he catches Ryouma’s hands, pulling them far from his crotch (if only to save himself any further embarrassment). Where Ryouma was quicker, Marx was stronger, and the other man seemed to realise this immediately, not struggling but not stopping the jut of his lip either.

“I do not want this to end just like… _this_.” That was how they left before the final battle in Valla. Simply together for the sole need of being together, nothing more. It had thrown their positions with each other out of the loop, neither party knowing where they stood. Marx opens his mouth, to continue to speak, when Ryouma cuts in, practically hissing.

“And what about what _I_ want, King Marx?”

Marx does not know how to respond. But could Ryouma expect him to know? They did not speak about such things. It was pushed aside, like marriage, heirs, future kingdoms to rule. Kept under lock and key in the back of Marx’s mind, where he dare not go to, not even in the dead of night. Getting what they _wanted_ was not something they had the luxury of, not even at that exact moment.

Ryouma’s face colours, and it was not the deep blush that spread over him, hours before. This was ugly, patchy, anger. Shame. Clicking of the tongue and head turned to the side, eyes staring off at something else altogether. Marx recognised the expression, and how Ryouma schooled it into one of calm. After all, how many times had Marx had to do the exact same thing in the last few months alone.

“I am sorry.”

“Do not apologise for something you do not understand.”

“I want to. Understand, that is. Ryouma, please, help me to understand.”

“Since we were children, Marx, you have never understood.”

Finally, Ryouma wrests himself free from Marx’s grip, going about to collect his clothes. Awkward silence falls over the room, definitely in a way Marx wished he could just will it gone. But that was never possible when he felt like he was drowning, swimming in waters he did not understand. How did his books always manage to fix things? If there was ever a time where that knowledge could have been useful, it was at this precise moment.

“Ryouma, I—I am sorry.” It is not what he wants to say, yet the words continue to fall from his lips. “I am sorry,” he says once more, stepping closer. Footsteps pulling him further in as apologies are simply on repeat, no stopping the words once he has started. What he was sorry for was not something Marx was sure he could simply sum up, but if Ryouma asked him, he would try to tell him, as much as he could.

Marx is still only greeted with silence and the expanse of Ryouma’s back. Closer still, he can hear a comment about Nohrian clothing. Despite himself, a smile twists on Marx’s lips, and he wraps his arms around Ryouma, stopping him. Heaving a sigh, Marx shifts, lips pressed against Ryouma’s shoulder before sliding to rest his cheek on warm skin. Ryouma does not move, just drops his clothes to the ground once more. Hands rest over where Marx’s fold, and Marx feels Ryouma relax under him.

“If only we had time.”

“Time has never been in our favour.”

A snort, Ryouma’s head tilting to the side as he spoke. “Nothing has ever been in our favour.” Honestly, he spoke the truth. There was no point in Marx trying to argue against him, when down to his core, he agreed. When Ryouma pushes free from Marx’s grasp, there is no attempt to pull him back. 

With a sigh, Marx runs his hands through his hair, before returning to looking for a shirt, be it from the previous night or a new one. Hands barely pull drawers open, when Ryouma calls his name. Turning, Marx almost misses the shirt thrown at his face. Catching the material, just before it collided with him, Marx lowers his arms to see an amused look on Ryouma’s face. 

Something he never understood was how quickly Ryouma seemed to switch. Suzukaze, one of the few Hoshidans Marx had come to know, had only divulged some basic knowledge in the inner workings of Hoshidan society. Such a complex way of separating feelings and faces, and Marx wanted to say it was not unlike the way people in his place operated. But, just from watching the way Ryouma walked about his room in an attempt to find pants, smiling as if nothing had happened at all, Marx knew deep down it was something else entirely. 

As they dress, it is nothing but small talk. Marx catches a number of apparent bruises along his back in a mirror, and Ryouma inspects a very conspicuous bite mark on his thigh. Yet they talk about work, ruling kingdoms and potential futures of trade. 

“We could always build a bridge.” Ryouma talks so nonchalantly about the idea, despite only managing to get a shirt on (still unbuttoned, still so very exposed). 

Head snapping up, no longer focused on his buttons, Marx cannot keep the surprise out of his voice. “A bridge?! Have you not seen the chasm at all?”

“I believe we ventured into it. I am familiar with the territory,” Ryouma says, tone flat and brow raised. “Do you not recall the end of the war?”

Marx ignores the jab at their last night, more than the war itself. “Then you know the sheer amount of work that would have to go into it. Money and resources we cannot afford to spare.”

“Nohrians already have outposts across the chasm, do they not? There are also the old wooden bridges.”

From the corner of his eye, Marx watches the way Ryouma’s back shifts as he pulls his pants on. “You have been thinking about this for quite some time.”

“A direct route that does not rely on water or air. And now that there is no kingdom resting under our feet, we have no need to worry about anyone rising up to claim title.” Just from the way he speaks, Ryouma gives away how much thought he had given into the process. “Perhaps you can join us on the way back to Hoshido, where I may be able to show you where would best be suited for one bridge, at least.”

Tucking his shirt in, Marx goes for his vest, hanging haphazardly off a handle. Truly a wonder how it had not fallen yet. “Sadly I will have to decline. I have to go to Dia within the week. Trade is a priority.” Marx does not wish to see how Ryouma would react to that, and continues to fix himself, eyes firmly on the mirror before him. 

“And Nestra?” There in itself was another problem altogether, one Marx was sure sat at the top of his pile of papers in his father’s office. 

“They have accepted our help to rebuild, admittedly not entirely convinced by our efforts.”

“I have to send a messenger in a month to confirm our participation.” A comment likely not meant for Marx to hear, and he continues to ignore it. Instead, directs conversation further away, finally mostly presentable, should anyone decide to barge in.

“Do you know what time it is?”

Ryouma turns towards him, shirt still untucked, jacket barely hanging onto his shoulders. Not at all trying to hide what he had been up to. “Late. No doubt people will be starting to ask questions by now.”

“Yes, well, you cannot be seen leaving my room.”

“And how would you suggest I take my leave then? Scaling the walls?” For his part, Ryouma actually does go near the window, pulling the curtain away to let them both see rain begin to hit the window. Ryouma almost seemed taken aback, as if he had expected sunshine to come streaming through. “On second thought, I am not going to be climbing anything in this weather.”

“Thankfully, there are other ways to get around the castle. Such as passages in the walls.” Making his way over to the fireplace, Marx does have to spare a thought that the old passageway leading from his room may not work anymore. He had never found use for such a thing since he was a child, and he doubted that anyone would check on whether it was still useable. 

“For staff?”

“And… comfort.”

Ryouma’s eye twinkles at such a suggestion. “Why, my dear King, is there something you wish to tell me?”

Making an annoyed noise in the back of his throat, Marx frowns at such a suggestion. “You of all people should know that I have never had such intentions.”

“And yet you gripped my hips so strongly when we—”

Clearing his throat, Marx takes the cane to the left of the fireplace, before firmly shoving the end into a hole that looked as much part of the design as anything. A slow clicking noise begins, and Marx watches Ryouma as he keeps his eyes on the way various parts of the fireplace began to click, wood folding in as simply as paper, stone shifting to the side. When Marx was a little child, he swore that the dragon painted on the ceiling used to roar, but now he was far older, and knew the roar was just the sound of brick grinding along stone. Eventually a small entry way appears, that would lead to a long walkway, following along the backs of various rooms. Guest rooms were at least five doors down; Marx tells Ryouma this as he takes a candle stick from the nearby table. 

With the light held out in front, Marx ducks into the area, lighting the next candle. A soft orange glow fills the area, some warmth offered as he moved to the next. At least three candles burned down the corridor, a barely there draft teasing the flames.

Dull slaps of bare feet follow him a fair way in, and Marx turns. “Take this, and go a little further down.”

“No escort the entire way? Shameful.” Despite the playful tone, Marx has to raise the candle out of the way as Ryouma tries to edge past. There is something he had never seen before, the way Ryouma walked ahead, footsteps just a little faster. Was the King of Hoshido afraid of small, dark places? That was certainly not something Marx had ever thought possible, with just how much bravado he boasted.

Eventually, they make it to where Ryouma should have been staying. This door pops open easily, just the back wooden panel of the wardrobe. Stepping through first, Ryouma makes it two steps in before the door to his room slips open and shut. A shout of alarm stops Marx from pushing the rest of the way through, and he backs up immediately. From what he could see through the slip in the wardrobe, one of Ryouma’s attendants had appeared, fussing over his appearance. With a sharp intake of breath, Marx turns, quickly making his way back. 

The previous night’s clothes are stained and do not hide anything. Marx knows that there was no explanation that he could possibly give, should it have been seen. For his effort, Marx straightens his jacket at least somewhat. Ryouma’s shirt would have continued to stay untucked, likely, jacket at least being worn now. No signs of a vest, and he had carried his shoes in one hand. Surely, there were all sorts of romantic stories about the kind of man Ryouma seemed to imitate, leaving the bedroom before anyone could see. Some of the ones Marx had perused seemed to particularly appropriate when considering what he was feeling at that moment.

When Marx makes it back to his room, he sets the candle down, removes the cane, and does not bother to watch everything slide back into place. As he walks over to his bed, he notes the way his room seemed to appear just a touch more lived in, with how the sheets spilled towards the floor, socks, shoes and various parts of their night’s vestments scattered around. Marx could not remember a day where he had seen anything other than the prim and proper expected of him.

Settling in one of the chairs in his room, Marx takes in just how his chambers felt warmer, even in the harsh Nohrian weather, and smiled despite himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on one hand, yes, totally a filler while i patch together the next few chapters. also to mark ryoumas last appearance for an undisclosed amount of time. i wanted to upload the next... four or five in just one big hit but i have to rewrite some things haha and there's also the side fics i Have to get up here as well to help a few things along. especially leon's and elise's (wiping my forehead profusely)
> 
>  
> 
> [chap 11 notes](http://thegoldendream.tumblr.com/post/156930683416/the-golden-dream-chapter-11-notesmore-1-marx)


End file.
